ne thing I have forgotten, sir, which may be of importance. The
man carried a bag--a rather light-coloured leather bag, in his left
hand. It was such a bag, sir, as might well contain a long-handled
knife."

Mrs. Bunting looked at the reporters' table. She remembered suddenly
that she had told Bunting about the disappearance of Mr. Sleuth's bag.
And then a feeling of intense thankfulness came over her; not a
single reporter at the long, ink-stained table had put down that last
remark of Mr. Cannot. In fact, not one of them had heard it.

Again the last witness put up his hand to command attention. And
then silence did fall on the court.

"One word more," he said in a quavering voice. "May I ask to be
accommodated with a seat for the rest of the proceedings? I see
there is some room left on the witnesses' bench." And, without
waiting for permission, he nimbly stepped across and sat down.

Mrs. Bunting looked up, startled. Her friend, the inspector, was
bending over her.

"Perhaps you'd like to come along now," he said urgently.--"I
don't suppose you want to hear the medical evidence. It's always
painful for a female to hear that. And there'll be an awful rush
when the inquest's over. I could get you away quietly now."

She rose, and, pulling her veil down over her pale face, followed
him obediently.

Down the stone staircase they went, and through the big, now empty,
room downstairs.

"I'll let you out the back way," he said. "I expect you're tired,
ma'am, and will like to get home to a cup o' tea."

"I don't know how to thank you!" There were tears in her eyes.
She was trembling with excitement and emotion. "You have been good
to me."

"Oh, that's nothing," he said a little awkwardly. "I expect you
went though a pretty bad time, didn't you?"

"Will they be having that old gentleman again?" she spoke in a
whisper, and looked up at him with a pleading, agonised look.

"Good Lord, no! Crazy old fool! We're troubled with a lot of
those sort of people, you know, ma'am, and they often do have funny
names, too. You see, that sort is busy all their lives in the City,
or what not; then they retires when they gets about sixty, and
they're fit to hang themselves with dulness. Why, there's hundreds
of lunies of the sort to be met in London. You can't go about at
night and not meet 'em. Plenty of 'em!"

"Then you don't think there was anything in what he said?" she
ventured.

"In what that old gent said? Goodness