"CROWNER'S QUEST."
Hetty was conscious of a sea of curious eyes and white, eager faces.
As the days went on public interest in the Corner House mystery had
not abated. All sorts of vague stories had got about, and in some
mysterious way the name of Dr. Gordon Bruce was mixed up in it.
Why he had not been arrested Bruce could not imagine. The tale he had
volunteered to Prout and his signature on the back of the notes were
almost in themselves enough to hang a man. Perhaps a little private
conversation between Prout and Lawrence had had the effect of
postponing matters. Bruce was not in the least likely to run away; on
the contrary, he had volunteered to give evidence at the adjourned
inquest. Hetty also would have something to say that would be in
favour of her lover.
"After all, they can't definitely say that those notes were ever in
the possession of the murdered man," she whispered to Bruce. "He wrote
the letter, of course, but they don't know he really possessed the
notes."
"I am afraid they do," Bruce replied. "They are going to call a
cashier from the National Credit Bank who positively identified the
deceased as the man who changed £400 in gold for notes, part of which
notes were numbers 190753 to 190792, or the notes I paid to Capper.
That piece of evidence cannot possibly be shaken."
Hetty admitted the fact with a sigh. She had no illusions as to the
future. Unless something like a miracle happened Gordon was certain to
stand in the dock charged with the murder of a man unknown. Examined
in the cold light of day, Gordon Bruce's story was an extraordinary
one. Hetty was forced to admit that from the lips of a stranger she
would not have believed a word of it.
And Gilbert Lawrence now refused to say anything. He was the one
person who seemed to be thoroughly satisfied. There was some comfort
to be derived from this, but not much, as Hetty told herself
miserably.
The inquest was sensational from the very start. After the dead man's
landlady of the house by the docks and her landlord's agent proved the
handwriting of the deceased, Sergeant Prout told the story of the
missing banknotes. A good few of the packed audience knew Bruce by
sight, and as the evidence proceeded he found the scrutiny of so many
eyes quite trying.
Even the most guilty when brought to book are not without some feeling
of shame, however defiant they may appear, but it is a horrible thing
when the innocent has to stand and answer to a criminal charge. A wave
of indignation passed over Bruce, to be followed by utter
helplessness.
"Courage, dear old boy," Hetty whispered. "It will all come right in
the end. Good will come out of this evil."
Bruce shut his teeth tightly and nodded. Still, in Prout's evidence he
seemed to hear the voice of his judge passing sentence.
Prout concluded his evidence at length, every word of which told dead
against the one man seated there. Not half a dozen people in the room
would have acquitted him on the criminal charge.
"Do you propose to go any further today?" the coroner asked.
Prout was understood to say no, when Bruce rose. His face was deadly
pale, a tiny red spot burning on either cheek. But he had his voice
under proper control; there was no look of guilt about him.
"If you have no objection, sir, I should like to give evidence," he
said.
The presiding official was decidedly taken aback. He looked at Prout,
who made no sign. He was not so prejudiced as most of the people
there.
"Really if you will be guided by my opinion you will do nothing of the
kind," he said, much as a magistrate might address a prisoner in the
dock. "If you were called it would be a different matter. On the whole
the best plan would be for you to be represented by a solicitor, who
would put questions likely to--er--tell in your favour."
Bruce smiled grimly. He knew perfectly well what a terrible
significance lay behind these formal words. At the same time, he had
no desire to take any advantage. There was an electric thrill in the
audience as he was sworn. They thrilled with a deeper intensity as he
proceeded. If ever a man stood up and committed moral and social
suicide Dr. Gordon Bruce was that man at this moment.
There was scarcely a sound to be heard till he had finished. People
thrust forward, eager that no word should be missed. A sudden sneeze
caused the whole court to start violently. It was a strange weird
story, that only one listener believed in, and that was Hetty.
The coroner had nothing to say. The thing was bad enough, and he did
not wish to be too hard on a medical colleague. A curious juryman had
a lot of questions to ask, especially about the mysterious Spanish
woman and the motor car.
"You left that lady behind you?" he said. "Who is to testify to that?
If you can prove such to be the case, why----"
The curious one shrugged his shoulders. Then a loud clear voice rang
to the roof, the voice of a woman who declared that she could prove
it. A ripple of amazement followed. Before it died away Hetty became
conscious of the fact that the voice was hers, and that she had
spoken.
In a dreary kind of way she found herself answering questions.
Somebody had placed a book in her hands and had told her to kiss it.
"I live next door to the corner house," she said. "I could not sleep
on the night in question. At a little before five----"
"How do you fix the time?" came from the inquisitive juryman,
"Because my bedroom clock struck the hour as I got back. I heard
somebody leave the corner house. I looked out of the window and saw a
motor car that appeared to be draped in black. As a woman from the
house got on to it she seemed to push some of the drapery aside, for I
saw the gleam of the rail. She was a fair woman with a mantilla over
her head. The car went off without the faintest noise, and that is all
I know."
"Are you a friend of the prison----, I mean of Dr. Bruce?" asked the
inquisitive one.
Hetty was bound to admit that she was more than that. The
interrogative juryman sniffed and suggested that Dr. Bruce might have
been in the house then.
"Impossible," Bruce cried. "At a quarter to five I was at home. The
hall porter and two of the maids were down and will testify to the
fact."
A ripple of excitement followed. A reporter rose and held up his hand.
"I desire to be sworn, sir," he said. "It so happens that I can throw
a little light on this matter. I did not leave the office of my paper
till four in the morning of the day to which this young lady alludes.
The clock on Gregory's store struck five as I reached Garrett Street,
which, as you know, runs into Raven Street. A few seconds later a fast
motor passed me without the slightest noise."
"Perhaps you had better describe this motor," said the coroner.
"It was draped or some way disguised in black. A woman sat by the
driver, with a cloud of lace over her head. I could just catch a
glimpse of a brass rail where the drapery was disturbed."
Prout snapped his note-book together and put it in his pocket.
"After that," he muttered, "I give it up; it's beyond me."