“Thank you. I think that is all we want to ask you, Doctor; unless the jury wish to put any questions.”
He glanced uneasily at that august body, and instantly the irrepressible Pope rose to the occasion.
“About that finger that is missing,” said the cobbler. “You say that it was cut off after death?”
“That is my opinion.”
“Now can you tell us why it was cut off?”
“No, I cannot.”
“Oh, come now, Doctor Summers, you must have formed some opinion on the subject.”
Here the coroner interposed. “The Doctor is only concerned with the evidence arising out of the actual examination of the remains. Any personal opinions or conjectures that he may have formed are not evidence, and he must not be asked about them.”
“But, sir,” objected Pope, “we want to know why that finger was cut off. It couldn’t have been took off for no reason. May I ask, sir, if the person who is missing had anything peculiar about that finger?”
“Nothing is stated to that effect in the written description,” replied the coroner.
“Perhaps,” suggested Pope, “Inspector Badger can tell us.”
“I think,” said the coroner, “we had better not ask the police too many questions. They will tell us anything that they wish to be made public.”
“Oh, very well,” snapped the cobbler. “If it’s a matter of hushing it up I’ve got no more to say; only I don’t see how we are to arrive at a verdict if we don’t have the facts put before us.”
All the witnesses having now been examined, the coroner proceeded to sum up and address the jury.
“You have heard the evidence, gentlemen, of the various witnesses, and you will have perceived that it does not enable us to answer either of the questions that form the subject of this inquiry. We now know that the deceased was an elderly man, about sixty years of age, and about five feet eight to nine in height; and that his death took place from eighteen months to two years ago. That is all we know. From the treatment to which the body has been subjected we may form conjectures as to the circumstances of his death. But we have no actual knowledge. We do not know who the deceased was or how he came by his death. Consequently, it will be necessary to adjourn this inquiry until fresh facts are available, and as soon as that is the case, you will receive due notice that your attendance is required.”
The silence of the Court gave place to the confused noise of moving chairs and a general outbreak of eager talk amidst which I rose and made my way out into the street. At the door I encountered Dr. Summers, whose dogcart was waiting close by.
“Are you going back to town now?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered; “as soon as I can catch a train.”
“If you jump into my cart I’ll run you down in time for the five-one. You’ll miss it if you walk.”
I accepted his offer thankfully, and a minute later was spinning briskly down the road to the station.
“Queer little devil, that man Pope,” Dr. Summers remarked. “Quite a character; a socialist, laborite, agitator, general crank; anything for a row.”
“Yes,” I answered; “that was what his appearance suggested. It must be trying for the coroner to get a truculent rascal like that on a jury.”
Summers laughed. “I don’t know. He supplies the comic relief. And then, you know, those fellows have their uses. Some of his questions were pretty pertinent.”
“So Badger seemed to think.”
“Yes, by Jove,” chuckled Summers. “Badger didn’t like him a bit; and I suspect the worthy inspector was sailing pretty close to the wind in his answers.”
“You think he really has some private information?”
“Depends upon what you mean by ‘information.’ The police are not a speculative body. They wouldn’t be taking all this trouble unless they had a pretty straight tip from somebody. How are Mr. and Miss Bellingham? I used to know them when they lived here.”
I was considering a discreet answer to this question when we swept into the station yard. At the same moment the train drew up at the platform, and, with a hurried handshake and hastily spoken thanks, I sprang from the dogcart and darted into the station.
During the rather slow journey homeward I read over my notes and endeavored to extract from the facts they set forth some significance other than that which lay on the surface, but without much success. Then I fell to speculating on what Thorndyke would think of the evidence at the inquest and whether he would be satisfied with the information that I had collected. These speculations lasted me, with occasional digressions, until I arrived at the Temple and ran up the stairs rather eagerly to my friends’ chambers.
But here a disappointment awaited me. The nest was empty with the exception of Polton, who appeared at the laboratory door in his white apron, with a pair of flat-nosed pliers in his hands.
“The Doctor had to go down to Bristol to consult over an urgent case,” he explained, “and Doctor Jervis has gone with him. They’ll be away a day or two, I expect, but the Doctor left this note for you.”
He took a letter from the shelf, where it had been stood conspicuously on edge, and handed it to me. It was a short note from Thorndyke apologizing for his sudden departure and asking me to give Polton my notes with any comments that I had to make.
“You will be interested to learn,” he added, “that the application will be heard in the Probate Court the day after tomorrow. I shall not be present, of course, nor will Jervis, so I should like you to attend and keep your eyes open for anything that may happen during the hearing and that may not appear in the notes that Marchmont’s clerk will be instructed to take. I have retained Dr. Payne to stand by and help you with the practise, so that you can
