ral impulse for
a high-minded man? The prisoner had believed that in due course the
police would discover the actual murderer, and that in the meantime the
scandal which threatened his wife's name would be buried with the man who
had wronged her. If the prisoner could have prevented it his wife's name
would not have been dragged into this case even for the purpose of saving
himself from injustice. But the prosecution, in order to establish a
motive for the crime, had dragged this scandal into light. He did not
blame the prosecution in the least for that. In fact he was grateful to
his learned friend for doing so, for it had released him from a promise
extracted from him by the prisoner not to make any use of the matter in
his conduct of the case. The defence was that, although the accused man
had gone to Riversbrook on the night of the 18th of August to accuse Sir
Horace Fewbanks of base treachery, he went there unarmed, and with no
intention of committing violence. No threats were used and no shot was
fired during the interview. And in proof of the latter contention he
intended to call witnesses to prove that Sir Horace Fewbanks was alive
after the prisoner had left the house.

The name of Daniel Kemp was loudly called by the ushers, and when Kemp
crossed the court on the way to the witness-box, Chippenfield and
Crewe, who had returned to the court after giving their evidence,
looked at one another.

"He's a dead man," whispered Chippenfield, nodding his head towards the
prisoner, "if this is a sample of their witnesses."

Kemp had brushed himself up for his appearance in the witness-box. He
wore a new ready-made tweed suit; his thick neck was encased in a white
linen collar which he kept fingering with one hand as though trying to
loosen it for his greater comfort; and his hair had been plastered flat
on his head with plenty of cold water. His red and scratched chin further
indicated that he had taken considerable pains with a razor to improve
his personal appearance in keeping with his unwonted part of a
respectable witness in a place which knew a more sinister side of him. As
he stood in the witness-box, awkwardly avoiding the significant glances
that the Scotland Yard men and the police cast at him, he appeared to be
more nervous and anxious than he usually was when in the dock. But Crewe,
who was watching him closely, was struck by the look of dog-like devotion
he hurriedly cast at the weary face of the man in t