“Good!” said Felpham. “Of course, I’ll have Hyde brought up at the inquest, and he shall tell his story. And we’ll save these Australian chaps until Hyde’s been in the box. I do wish Hyde himself could tell us more about that man whom he saw leaving the passage. Of course, that man is the actual murderer.”
“You think that?” asked Viner.
“Don’t doubt it for one moment—and a cool, calculating hand, too!” declared Felpham. “A man who knew what he was doing. How long do you suppose it would take to strike the life out of a man and to snatch a few valuables from his clothing? Pooh! to a hand such as this evidently was, a minute. Then, he walks calmly away. And—who is he? But—we’re not doing badly.”
That, too, was Viner’s impression when he walked out of the coroner’s court next day. After having endured its close and sordid atmosphere for four long hours, he felt, more from intuition than from anything tangible, that things had gone well for Hyde. One fact was plain—nothing more could be brought out against Hyde, either there, when the inquest was resumed a week later, or before the magistrate, or before a judge and jury. Every scrap of evidence against him was produced before the coroner: it was obvious that the police could rake up no more, unless indeed they could prove him to have hidden Ashton’s remaining valuables somewhere which was ostensibly an impossibility. And the evidence of Hyde himself had impressed the court. Two days’ rest and refreshment, even in a prison and on prison fare, had pulled him together, and he had given his evidence clearly and confidently. Viner had seen that people were impressed by it: they had been impressed, too, by the evidence volunteered by the two Australians. And when the coroner announced that he should adjourn the inquiry for a week, the folk who had crowded the court went away asking each other not if Hyde was guilty, but what was this secret of which Ashton had boasted the possession?
Drillford caught Viner up as he walked down the street and smiled grimly at him.
“Well, you’re doing your best for him, and no mistake, Mr. Viner,” he said. “He’s a lucky chap to have found such a friend!”
“He’s as innocent as I am,” answered Viner. “Look here; if you police want to do justice, why don’t you try to track the man whom Hyde has told of?”
“What clue have we?” exclaimed Drillford almost contemptuously. “A tall man in black clothes, muffled to his eyes! But I’ll tell you what, Mr. Viner,” he added with a grin: “as you’re so confident, why don’t you find him?”
“Perhaps I shall,” said Viner, quietly.
He meant what he said, and he was thinking deeply what might be done towards accomplishing his desires, when, later in the afternoon, Mr. Pawle rang him up on the telephone.
“Run down!” said Mr. Pawle cheerily. “There’s a new development!”
VIII
News from Arcadia
When Viner, half an hour later, walked into the waiting-room at Crawle, Pawle and Rattenbury’s, he was aware of a modestly attired young woman, evidently, from her dress and appearance, a country girl, who sat shyly turning over the pages of an illustrated paper. And as soon as he got into Pawle’s private room, the old solicitor jerked his thumb at the door by which Viner had entered, and smiled significantly.
“See that girl outside?” he asked. “She’s the reason of my ringing you up.”
“Yes?” said Viner. “But what—why? More mystery?”
“Don’t know,” said Mr. Pawle. “I’ve kept her story till you came. She turned up here about three-quarters of an hour ago, and said that her grandmother, who keeps an inn at Marketstoke, in Buckinghamshire, had seen the paragraph in the papers this morning in which I asked if anybody could give any information about Mr. John Ashton’s movements, and had immediately sent her off to me with the message that a gentleman of that name stayed at their house for a few days some weeks since, and that if I would send somebody over there, she, the grandmother, could give some particulars about him. So that solves the question we were talking of at Markendale Square, as to where Ashton went during the absence Mrs. Killenhall told us of.”
“If this is the same Ashton,” suggested Viner.
“We’ll soon decide that,” answered Mr. Pawle as he touched the bell on his desk. “I purposely awaited your coming before hearing what this young woman had to tell. Now, my dear,” he continued as a clerk brought the girl into the room, “take a chair and tell me what your message is, more particularly. You’re from Marketstoke eh? Just so—and your grandmother, who sent you here, keeps an inn there?”
“Yes, sir, the Ellingham Arms,” replied the girl as she sat down and glanced a little nervously at her two interviewers.
“To be sure. And your grandmother’s name is—what?”
“Hannah Summers, sir.”
“Mrs. Hannah Summers. Grandfather living?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well—Mrs. Hannah Summers, landlady at the Ellingham Arms, Marketstoke, in Buckinghamshire. Now then—but what’s your name, my dear?”
“Lucy Summers, sir.”
“Very pretty name, I’m sure! Well, and what’s the message your grandmother sent me? I want this gentleman to hear it.”
“Grandmother wished me to say, sir, that we read the piece in the paper this morning asking if anybody could give you any news about a Mr. John Ashton, and that as we had a gentleman of that name staying with us for three or four days some weeks since, she sent me to tell you, and to say that if you would send somebody down to see her, she could give some information about him.”
“Very clearly put, my dear—much obliged to you,” said Mr. Pawle. “Now, I suppose you were at the Ellingham Arms when this Mr. Ashton came there?”
“Oh, yes, sir; I live there!”
“To be sure! Now, what sort of man was he—in appearance?”
“A tall, big gentleman, sir,
