be my painful duty to show that the murdered man was not the saint the world has agreed to paint him, I shall not shrink from unveiling the truer picture, in the interests of justice, which cannot say nil nisi bonum even of the dead. I propose to show that the murder was committed by the prisoner shortly before half-past six on the morning of December 4th, and that the prisoner having, with the remarkable ingenuity which he has shown throughout, attempted to prepare an alibi by feigning to leave London by the first train to Liverpool, returned home, got in with his latch-key through the street-door, which he had left on the latch, unlocked his victim’s bedroom with a key which he possessed, cut the sleeping man’s throat, pocketed his razor, locked the door again, and gave it the appearance of being bolted, went downstairs, unslipped the bolt of the big lock, closed the door behind him, and got to Euston in time for the second train to Liverpool. The fog helped his proceedings throughout.” Such was in sum the theory of the prosecution. The pale defiant figure in the dock winced perceptibly under parts of it.
Mrs. Drabdump was the first witness called for the prosecution. She was quite used to legal inquisitiveness by this time, but did not appear in good spirits.
“On the night of December 3d, you gave the prisoner a letter?”
“Yes, your ludship.”
“How did he behave when he read it?”
“He turned very pale and excited. He went up to the poor gentleman’s room, and I’m afraid he quarreled with him. He might have left his last hours peaceful.” (Amusement.)
“What happened then?”
“Mr. Mortlake went out in a passion, and came in again in about an hour.”
“He told you he was going away to Liverpool very early the next morning.”
“No, your ludship, he said he was going to Devonport.” (Sensation.)
“What time did you get up the next morning?”
“Half-past six.”
“That is not your usual time?”
“No, I always get up at six.”
“How do you account for the extra sleepiness?”
“Misfortunes will happen.”
“It wasn’t the dull, foggy weather?”
“No, my lud, else I should never get up early.” (Laughter.)
“You drink something before going to bed?”
“I like my cup o’ tea. I take it strong, without sugar. It always steadies my nerves.”
“Quite so. Where were you when the prisoner told you he was going to Devonport?”
“Drinkin’ my tea in the kitchen.”
“What should you say if prisoner dropped something in it to make you sleep late?”
Witness (startled): “He ought to be shot.”
“He might have done it without your noticing it, I suppose?”
“If he was clever enough to murder the poor gentleman, he was clever enough to try and poison me.”
The Judge: “The witness in her replies must confine herself to the evidence.”
Mr. Spigot, Q. C.: “I must submit to your lordship that it is a very logical answer, and exactly illustrates the interdependence of the probabilities. Now, Mrs. Drabdump, let us know what happened when you awoke at half-past six the next morning.”
Thereupon Mrs. Drabdump recapitulated the evidence (with new redundancies, but slight variations) given by her at the inquest. How she became alarmed—how she found the street-door locked by the big lock—how she roused Grodman, and got him to burst open the door—how they found the body—all this with which the public was already familiarad nauseam was extorted from her afresh.
“Look at this key” (key passed to the witness). “Do you recognize it?”
“Yes; how did you get it? It’s the key of my first-floor front. I am sure I left it sticking in the door.”
“Did you know a Miss Dymond?”
“Yes, Mr. Mortlake’s sweetheart. But I knew he would never marry her, poor thing.” (Sensation.)
“Why not?”
“He was getting too grand for her.” (Amusement).
“You don’t mean anything more than that?”
“I don’t know; she only came to my place once or twice. The last time I set eyes on her must have been in October.”
“How did she appear?”
“She was very miserable, but she wouldn’t let you see it.” (Laughter.)
“How has the prisoner behaved since the murder?”
“He always seemed very glum and sorry for it.”
Cross-examined: “Did not the prisoner once occupy the bedroom of Mr. Constant, and give it up to him, so that Mr. Constant might have the two rooms on the same floor?”
“Yes, but he didn’t pay as much.”
“And, while occupying this front bedroom, did not the prisoner once lose his key and have another made?”
“He did; he was very careless.”
“Do you know what the prisoner and Mr. Constant spoke about on the night of December 3d?”
“No; I couldn’t hear.”
“Then how did you know they were quarreling?”
“They were talkin’ so loud.”
Sir Charles Brown-Harland, Q. C. (sharply): “But I’m talking loudly to you now. Should you say I was quarreling?”
“It takes two to make a quarrel.” (Laughter.)
“Was the prisoner the sort of man who, in your opinion, would commit a murder?”
“No, I never should ha’ guessed it was him.”
“He always struck you as a thorough gentleman?”
“No, my lud. I knew he was only a comp.”
“You say the prisoner has seemed depressed since the murder. Might not that have been due to the disappearance of his sweetheart?”
“No, he’d more likely be glad to get rid of her.”
“Then he wouldn’t be jealous if Mr. Constant took her off his hands?” (Sensation.)
“Men are dog-in-the-mangers.”
“Never
