“Well, what do you make of it?” the coroner asked.
“Just as I told you before,” the witness went on. “I saw that lady with Mr. Delahay at a quarter past one on the morning of the murder. I saw her enter the house in Fitzjohn Square.”
“Extraordinary!” the coroner exclaimed. “Mrs. Delahay has already sworn to the fact that she retired to bed at twelve o’clock, and that she did not miss her husband till late the next morning; and now you say that you saw her with the murdered man. In the face of Mrs. Delahay’s evidence, are you prepared to repeat your first statement?”
A stubborn look came over Stevens’ face. His watery eyes became more clear and steadfast.
“I have no object in telling a lie, sir,” he said. “I came forward in what I considered to be the interests of justice, and at some loss to myself. I am prepared to stand up in any Court of Justice, and take my oath that Mrs. Delahay was with her husband at the time and place I have mentioned.”
The audience swayed again, for there was something exceedingly impressive in the speaker’s words. All eyes were turned upon Mrs. Delahay, who seemed at length to gain some understanding of what was going on. There was no sign of guilt or confusion on her face. It was as calm and stony as ever.
“The speaker is absolutely mistaken,” she said. “He must have confused me with somebody else. From twelve o’clock at night till seven the next morning I was not out of my room.”
“On the face of what has happened, we cannot possibly go any further,” the coroner said. “After all it will be an easy matter to test the correctness of both witnesses. It is just possible that Stevens has made a mistake.”
Stevens shook his head doggedly. He felt quite certain that there was no mistake so far as he was concerned. Then there was a little awkward pause, followed by a whispered consultation between the coroner and Inspector Dallas.
“The enquiry is adjourned for a week,” the coroner announced. “There is nothing to be gained by any further investigation till the extraordinary point which has arisen has been settled.”
The disappointed audience filed out until only a few of the authorities from Scotland Yard remained. As Mrs. Delahay walked slowly towards the door, Inspector Dallas followed her.
“You will excuse me, I am sure,” he said, “but I should like to come back to your hotel with you and make a few inquiries. You see, it is absolutely necessary to disprove John Stevens’ statements. Until we have done that, we can’t carry our investigations any further. I hope you will be able to help us in this matter.”
“How can I help you?” the woman asked in the same dull, level voice. “I tell you that man was mistaken. I am still so dazed and stunned by my loss that I am quite incapable of following things clearly. Something seems to have gone wrong with my brain. But I will try and help you. It is very strange that that man should have made such an extraordinary mistake.”
“Very strange indeed,” Dallas murmured. “Will you permit me to call you a cab? Now tell me, have you any relations? For instance, have you a sister who is very like you? In one of the most important investigations I ever undertook, I was utterly baffled for months owing to the fact of there being two twin brothers mixed up in the case. If you have a sister—”
“So far as I know I have not a single female relative in the world,” Mrs. Delahay responded. “And as to the rest, you will find that my statement is absolutely true. I suppose you will believe the servants at the hotel?”
The hotel was reached at length, and Mrs. Delahay excused herself on the ground that she was tired and utterly worn out. So far as Dallas was concerned he had no desire to detain her. As a matter of fact, he wanted to pursue his inquiries alone, and on the production of his card the resources of the establishment were placed at his disposal. Nothing seemed to escape his eye. No detail appeared to be too trivial. He received his reward at length through the lips of one of the chambermaids who had something to say. As was only natural, there was not a servant on the premises who had not heard all about the Fitzjohn Square tragedy, or who was not deeply interested in Mrs. Delahay.
“It is your duty to look after the rooms on the same floor as Mrs. Delahay’s bedroom?” he asked. “What time did you retire on the night of the murder?”
“Not before two o’clock,” the chambermaid replied. “We were unusually late that night as the house was full.”
“Quite so. I suppose when Mr. and Mrs. Delahay came in from the theatre they got the key of their bedroom from the office in the ordinary way? I suppose they had a dressing room and a bedroom?”
The chambermaid admitted that such was the fact. When asked if she knew what time Mrs. Delahay had retired for the night, she shook her head. She “could not be quite sure.”
“You see, it was like this,” she said. “I was rather interested in Mr. and Mrs. Delahay—they were such a distinguished looking couple. I was in the corridor when Mr. Delahay went out about twelve o’clock, and half an hour later I went up to Mrs. Delahay’s bedroom to see if I could do anything for her. The key was in the door, which struck me as rather strange, because, as you know, in large hotels like this, it is the customary thing for people to lock their rooms. I knocked at the door and no reply came, so I went in. The bed and dressing room were
