Just as the witnesses were about to be called who had been summoned—and of whom, though John was not aware of it, Rintoul, who had (as was supposed) helped to find the body, was one—an extraordinary interruption occurred. Mr. Monypenny, who to John’s surprise had not approached him or shown himself in his vicinity, suddenly rose, and addressing the sheriff, claimed an immediate stoppage of the proceedings, so far as Mr. Erskine was concerned. He was a very clearheaded and sensible man; but he was a country “man of business”—a Scotch solicitor—and he had his own formal way of making a statement. It was so formal, and had so many phrases in it only half comprehensible to unaccustomed ears, that it was some time before the little group of friends were fully aware what the interruption meant.
Mr. Monypenny announced, however, to the perfect understanding of the authorities present, that the person who had really encountered the unfortunate Mr. Torrance last, and been concerned in the scuffle which no doubt unfortunately was the cause of the accident, had come to his house on the previous night and given himself up. The man’s statement was perfectly clear and satisfactory, and would be supported by all the circumstantial evidence. He had kept back nothing, but displayed the most honourable anxiety to clear the gentleman who had been so unjustly accused and put to so much personal inconvenience.
“Is the man in court?” the sheriff asked.
“The man is here,” said Mr. Monypenny. The good man was conscious of the great effect he was producing. He looked round upon the group of gentlemen with thorough enjoyment of the situation; but he, too, was startled by the extraordinary aspect of Lord Rintoul. The young man was livid; great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead; the lines about his eyes were drawn tight, and the eyes themselves, two unquiet watchers, full of horror and astonishment, looked out wildly, watching everything that was done. His lips had dropped apart; he stood like a man who did not know what the next word might bring upon him.
“This is the man,” Mr. Monypenny said. Rintoul made a sudden step forward, striking his foot violently against the bench in front of him. The sheriff looked up angrily at the noise. There is something in a great mental struggle of any kind which moves the atmosphere around it. The sheriff looked up and saw three men standing at unequal distances before him: Mr. Monypenny in front of his chair with somebody tranquil and insignificant beside him, and in the distance a face full of extraordinary emotion. “Will you have the goodness to step forward?” the sheriff said: and then stopping himself peevishly, “This is all out of order. Produce the man.”
Rolls had risen quietly by Mr. Monypenny’s side. He was not like a brawler, much less an assassin. He was somewhat pale, but in his professional black coat and white tie, who could have looked more respectable? He had “cleaned himself,” as he said, with great care that morning. Haggard and unshaven as he had been on the previous night after his wanderings, he would scarcely have made so great a sensation as he did now, trim as a new pin, carefully shaved, carefully brushed. There was a half shout, half cry, from the little band of spectators, now thoroughly demoralised and incapable of keeping order. “Rolls, old Rolls!” John Erskine cried with consternation. Could this be the explanation of it? As for Rolls himself, the outcry acted upon him in the most remarkable way. He grew red and lost his temper. “It’s just me, gentlemen,” he said; “and can an accident not happen to a man in a humble condition of life as well as to one of you?” He was silenced at once, and the stir of amazement repressed; but nothing could prevent the rustle and whisper among the gentlemen, which would have become tumultuous had their presence there been more than tolerated. They all knew Rolls, and to connect him with such an event was impossible. The tragedy seemed over, and at the utmost a tragicomedy, a solemn farce, had taken its place.
Rolls’s statement, however, was serious enough. It was to the effect that he had met his master coming down from Tinto in the condition of which so much had been made, when he himself was going up to make a request to Mr. Torrance about a lease—that he met Torrance close to the Scaur “coming thundering down the brae” in a state of excitement and temper such as it was well enough known Tinto was subject to. Rolls acknowledged that in such circumstances he ought not to have stopped him and introduced his suit—but this was merely an error of judgment. Tinto, he said, received his request very ill, and called his nephew—for whom he was going to plead—a ne’er-do-weel—which was not the case, let him say it that would. And here again
