Kitabı oku: «Dorrien of Cranston», sayfa 23
With a sigh of relief, the judge rose and left the bench. It was past nine, and his lordship was very hungry and proportionately irritable, for judges are mortal – very much so too.
The Court room emptied fast, many turning to take a parting look at the prisoner as they went out, speculating and laying odds for or against his chances of acquittal. It was ominous, however, that public opinion leaned considerably towards a conviction. But then, the defence had yet to be heard.
And the wretched man himself? He was conducted back to his cell, another night of suspense before him. Outwardly, his proud self-possession remained unshaken, but once within those cold, gloomy walls, alone and unseen by any human eye, a groan of the bitterest anguish escaped him as he sank despondently upon his bed. The web of Fate was closing in about him; to battle with it further was useless.
Throughout that night, a dismal sound smote upon the ears of the dwellers in the neighbourhood of the gaol, a sound of weird and mournful howling, where, upright upon his haunches, in the open space before the frowning portcullis of the prison, sat a large dog – his head in the air and his eyes lifted to the pale, cold moon, pouring forth his piteous lamentations. The prisoner heard it too.
“Dear old dog,” he murmured to himself. “Dear, faithful old Roy!”
Chapter Forty Five.
“Is he Robert Durnford?”
When the Court met again next morning there was no abatement in the attendance of the public; if anything, it was increased, for it was pretty well known that the verdict would be given to-day.
Mr Windgate was in his place, smiling, cheerful, and cracking small jokes with the juniors, as if he would convince everybody – judge, jury, audience, and prisoner – that he considered his case already won and the remainder of the proceedings a mere formality, unhappily necessary to ensure his client an honourable acquittal.
As for the case for the Crown, he said, it was fortunate they had come to an end of it at last – but fortunate in this sense only, that from beginning to end it had been a sheer wasting of the time of the Court, and specially of the valuable time of the twelve intelligent gentlemen before him. That being so, he proposed, himself, to be as brief as possible. His defence would be very short, so short indeed as at first blush to appear inadequate. But what could be more inadequate than the case for the prosecution! He would simply remind the jury of two things. One was that his unfortunate client, actuated by the most considerate of motives – the delicacy of character of a true gentleman – had chosen rather to impair his defence than to drag into this Court friends or relatives to whom such an attendance must necessarily be most painful. The other was that the whole case turned simply upon a question of identity. He would hardly so much as mention such trumpery points, which were not even circumstantial, though they might seem to be. What are they? A matchbox, a time-table, and a bit of paper. However, to put such trivialities out of the account, we have left only this question of identity, and that I shall have no difficulty in disposing of, entirely to your satisfaction. I shall call —
“Joseph Grainger.”
The public, unaccustomed to the persuasive powers and self-confidence of forensic eloquence, began to think at the conclusion of Mr Windgate’s speech that the result of the trial was not such a foregone thing after all, and there was yet more exciting uncertainty in store for it. It, therefore, prepared itself to listen eagerly.
“You are head waiter at ‘The Silver Fleece Inn,’ at Battisford?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long have you held that position?”
“Nigh upon seven year, sir.”
“Look at the prisoner. Do you know him?”
“Yes, sir. It’s Squire Dorrien.”
“When did you first see him?”
“Well, sir, I can’t exactly remember that. It was shortly after the General’s death. Lawyer Barnes, he comes to our place, and he says to my guv’nor, says he – ”
“Tut-tut-tut. Not so fast, my good friend,” interrupted Mr Windgate smilingly, while a ripple of mirth ran through the public. “Never mind about Lawyer Barnes, but just tell us when you first saw Mr Dorrien?”
“Well, sir, as far as I can remember, it was soon after he was married – just about Christmas-time.”
“Ah!” said, Mr Windgate triumphantly, making a rapid note. “And you never saw him before he was married?”
“No, sir.”
“Will you swear to that?”
“To the best of my belief, sir.”
“Very good. And have you seen him often since?”
“Not very often, sir. You see, he don’t come much over to Battisford, and I don’t go much over to Cranston – ”
“Quite so. Now, do you remember a Mr Robert Durnford coming to stay at ‘The Silver Fleece’?”
“Yes, sir – well.”
“When did he come?”
“He came – let me see – it was on a Saturday evening. I remember it, because it was the day before Mr Hubert Dorrien was lost.”
“Now what sort of person was this Mr Durnford? Just describe him.”
“A very nice, pleasant-spoken gentleman, and quite the gentleman,” and then the loquacious one launched into a voluminous description of the stranger, which made the audience laugh and the judge knit his brows and mutter impatiently.
“How long did he stay at ‘The Silver Fleece’?”
“Rather over a fortnight, sir.”
“Have you ever seen him since?”
“No, sir.”
“But if you did you would know him again – in a moment?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Now look at the accused.”
Grainger complied. The eyes of the witness and the prisoner met. In those of the latter there was indifference – in those of the former there was no recognition.
“Is he the same man as the man you knew as Robert Durnford?”
The loquacious one’s homely features expanded into a broad grin.
“Law bless you, no, sir. He ain’t in the least like him.”
Mr Windgate could have danced with relief.
“He isn’t in the least like him,” he repeated emphatically, for the benefit of the jury. As for Roland himself, the first gleam of light since his arrest a month ago now darted in upon the rayless gloom of his soul. “Except – ” The witness checked himself suddenly and with an effort. He could have bitten his tongue out. For Mr Benham had looked up quickly and was now making a note. Mr Windgate thought it better to let him go on.
“Except what?” he said playfully.
“I was goin’ to say, sir, leastways I was only thinking, sir,” answered the witness, stammering with confusion, “except it might be the way in which he stands.”
Mr Benham went on making his notes. His opponent’s feeling of relief was dashed, and the prisoner could have groaned aloud in the revulsion.
Then the witness in his roundabout way gave a voluble account of how the stranger had gone over to attend Wandsborough church, and had returned earlier than he was expected; and how he had come in while he – Grainger – was dozing.
“What time did he return?”
“It was after half-past nine.”
“How much after?”
“Five minutes.”
“You are positive as to this?”
“Oh, yes, sir – I said to the gentleman as how he’d come back very quick, ’cos they don’t come out o’ church till after half-past eight, and it’s over an hour’s walk at least. I asked him if he’d come by the way of the cliffs, and he didn’t seem to know there was a way by the cliffs as was shorter.”
Mr Windgate frowned slightly, and internally anathematised the witness’ garrulity.
“Anyhow, you are ready to swear it was five-and-twenty minutes to ten when this Mr Durnford came in?”
“Yes, sir – quite certain. We both looked at the clock and remarked it.”
“But one of the servants, a” – consulting his notes – “a Jane Flinders, says it was later.”
The loquacious one shook his head with a smile of pitying superiority.
“Law bless you, sir! Them gals is always a-fancyin’ things. They ought to have bin a-bed and asleep. No, no, sir. It wasn’t any more than five-and-twenty to ten.”
“This gentleman stayed at ‘The Silver Fleece’ a fortnight, you say. Now, during all that time did you notice anything strange about him?”
“Well, sir, he used to go about with a little hammer, chippin’ off bits o’ stone from the cliffs and suchlike, and in the evenin’ he’d sit in his room and write a good deal.”
“Did you talk with him at all on the subject of Mr Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance?”
“Yes, sir. I was the first to tell him of it.”
“Oh! And how did he seem to take it?”
“Cool as a blessed cucumber, sir. And when I told him that the ghost had been seen on The Skegs, he laughed in my face outright and said it was all humbug.”
“Ha-ha! Of course. Thank you, Grainger. That’ll do. Er – one more question. Do you know the place called Smugglers’ Ladder?”
“Well, sir, I’ve been there.”
“How long does it take to walk there from Battisford?”
“Three-quarters of an hour.”
“Ah! Now, you mentioned a cliff path leading from Wandsborough. Would that lead one past Smugglers’ Ladder?”
“Oh, no, sir. Nowhere near it. Why, it turns inland before you come within half a mile of Smugglers’ Ladder.”
“Thank you.”
“Wait a moment, please,” said Mr Benham suavely, as Grainger was about to leave the box. “You say this Robert Durnford came to stay at ‘The Silver Fleece’ the day before Hubert Dorrien was lost. That was on a Saturday evening. Did you at any time between that and Sunday evening have any conversation with him about the Dorrien family?”
The prisoner’s head sank lower and lower. That devil of a counsel!
“Well sir, we did.”
“Kindly repeat it.”
“Well, sir, as far as I can remember, the gentleman said he’d known the old Squire, the General’s brother. First he asked whose the house was, an’ then we got talkin’, and I told him a little about the General – just quietly and between ourselves, like.”
“Quite so. And what else did you tell him?”
“Well, sir, I told him a little about the young Squire being in difficulties with his father – not meanin’ any ’arm to anybody,” went on the man piteously, and with a penitent glance towards the dock.
“No, no. Of course not. People do talk of these things,” said Mr Benham encouragingly – then waxing impressive. “Now, did you mention a girl named Lizzie Devine?”
“Oh Lord, sir,” cried poor Grainger, horror-stricken, staring open-mouthed at the placid face of the inquisitorial counsel and wondering how the deuce he had ferreted out all this. “I didn’t mean no harm, but we was just a-talkin’ quietly like.” Then little by little Mr Benham inexorably elicited from the unwilling and terrified witness, the whole of the conversation that had passed between himself and Robert Durnford on the subject, and how he had told the stranger that Hubert Dorrien had blackened his brother’s name for his own advantage.
“Now, when Mr Durnford returned from Wandsborough that evening, you were asleep?”
“Yes, sir. I had just dropped off.”
“Where?”
“In the coffee-room.”
“And where was Durnford standing when you woke up?”
“In the door.”
“The door of the coffee-room?”
“Yes.”
“You mention a clock in the passage. Where does it stand?”
“It stands – you’ve seen it, sir.”
“No matter, my friend. The jury haven’t.”
“Well, sir, it stands about half way between the front door and the door of the coffee-room.”
“So that Durnford, to reach the coffee-room door, would have to pass that clock?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you did not wake till he was standing in the coffee-room door?”
“No, sir.”
“How high is the face of that clock from the ground? Can you reach it without standing on anything?”
“Oh, yes. Quite easily.”
“Was Durnford a taller man than yourself?”
“Yes, sir. At least a head taller.”
“Does the face of that clock open easily?”
“Quite easily. I open it every few days to wind it.”
“Did that clock keep good time after that evening?”
“I don’t remember, sir,” answered the witness, after a moment of earnest thought.
“No matter. Jane Flinders swears it was a quarter-past ten by her watch, when she heard Durnford come in. You swear it was five-and-twenty minutes to ten. How do you reconcile the difference?”
“I don’t know. She must be mistaken.”
“But so may you be.” The witness was silent.
“Now, has it never occurred to you that that clock may have been tampered with? The hands put back half an hour or so, while you were asleep?” asked Mr Benham, bending forward and fixing a piercing glance on the witness’ face.
“Oh Lord! sir. No, it never did.”
“But still the thing might have been done – while you were asleep?”
“It’s not impossible, sir.”
“It’s not impossible. And now – look at the prisoner.”
The light was full upon Roland’s face, and again his eyes met those of the witness. Grainger started and stared. His face was a study. He looked like a man upon whom a new and unexpected light had irresistibly dawned.
“Oh Lord?” he ejaculated dazedly.
“Now,” went on Mr Benham, in his most inquisitorial tone, “will you stand there and swear that the prisoner is not the man who was staying at ‘The Silver Fleece,’ under the name of Robert Durnford.”
“M’lord!” cried Mr Windgate, “I have made a special note of the fact that the witness has already distinctly sworn to that very thing. I must protest emphatically against my learned brother trying to intimidate the witness into making a most unwarrantable contradiction of his former statement.”
“And I must equally protest against these repeated imputations,” retorted Mr Benham.
“The prosecution is quite in order, Mr Windgate,” ruled the judge. “Let us continue.”
“There is – there is a look of Durnford about him,” blunderingly admitted the witness.
“A very similar look? On your oath, mind.”
“Well – he stands like him, and – and – his head – is like him,” stammered the unfortunate man.
“Will you swear that he is not the men that you knew as Robert Durnford? Yes or no?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you. By the bye, when did this Durnford leave ‘The Silver Fleece’?”
“It was the day after he and Miss Ingelow were cut off by the tide.”
“Did he leave suddenly?”
“Yes, quite suddenly. He just came in – packed up his things and caught the morning train for London.”
“Didn’t that strike you as rather strange?”
“Oh, no, sir. We didn’t know he had been out all night. It was only after he’d gone that we heard what happened. Dr Ingelow – that’s the rector o’ Wandsborough – he came over to ‘The Silver Fleece’ in the afternoon, and was in a great state because the gentleman had gone.”
“That’ll do, Grainger. You may stand down.”
Very black for the prisoner were things looking now. The jury wore an unusually grave expression of countenance, and even among the audience all levity was hushed in the intense anxiety attendant on the dread issue.
“Unless Windgate can prove an alibi, he’s done,” whispered a sporting junior to another. “Take you two to one on it in sovs if you like, Rogers.”
“Dunno. Think I won’t. Isn’t it rather queer form to bet on a fellow’s life,” was the reply.
Although the remark was unheard by him, it exactly rendered Mr Windgate’s reflections. That damning recognition – or half-recognition – of Grainger’s had simply lost the case, and he would have given much had it never been made. For he was on his mettle now. The case was a highly sensational one – just the thing to put a crowning point on his reputation if he had come out of it successfully, but now ‘that infernal Benham’ had been too sharp for him. Just one of his ferrety ideas, that about the clock being tampered with – and in this instance Windgate was shrewd enough to see that it had told with fatal effect. He wished again and again he had not been fool enough to undertake the defence of a man who would give him simply nothing to go upon. And he could not even prove an alibi.
The next witness was Brown, the verger of Wandsborough church. His evidence was short and straightforward. He had a recollection of a stranger coming into church on the evening in question, towards the middle of the service. He certainly never thought of recognising Mr Dorrien in him, nor had he since. He knew Mr Dorrien well, too – he often attended Wandsborough church. It must have been considerably earlier than half-past eight when the stranger came in, because the service on ordinary Sunday evenings was nearly always over by that time. As to distances and times, he, Brown, could not speak. He was an old man now, and never had been much of a walker. The only thing he could be positive about was that the stranger had left the church a little before half-past eight, and he certainly had no suspicion that it was Mr Dorrien, either at the time, or since.
Him the prosecution declined to cross-examine.
“I shall call the Rev. Laurence Turner,” said Mr Windgate.
The curate had not been at first subpoenaed. But so urgent had become the need of more testimony that the defence had decided at the last moment to put Turner into the box. The latter looked not a little nervous. Truth to tell, the situation was one of horror to his immaculate soul. He did not fancy being mixed up in criminal trials, as he subsequently put it.
“Now, Mr Turner,” went on Mr Windgate, after a few preliminary questions. “I believe you took part in the search for Miss Olive Ingelow, who was cut off by the tide on this coast some two-and-a-half years ago?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And you found her?”
“We were so fortunate.”
“Kindly tell the Court how and where you found her.”
Turner complied in as few words as possible.
“Now, did it strike you that this stranger you mention – this person who rescued the young lady, might have been Mr Roland Dorrien disguised?”
“Never.”
“Never? Then or since?”
“Neither then nor since,” answered Turner decidedly.
“Did you ever hear that it struck anybody?”
“Never.”
“Yet you knew Roland Dorrien well?”
“Fairly well.”
“Dr Ingelow, the lady’s father, took part in the search, did he not?”
“Yes.”
“And he remarked no likeness?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“You saw a great deal of Dr Ingelow at that time?”
“Yes.”
“And he never mentioned any such suspicion?”
“Never.”
“One moment, Mr Turner,” said the Crown counsel, rising to cross-examine. “This lady is now the prisoner’s wife, is she not?”
“She is.”
“Didn’t it strike you as rather – well, queer – the stranger Durnford suddenly leaving you all in the way he did?”
“A little perhaps. But we supposed he knew his own business best. And some people are queer.”
“A – quite so – Mr Turner, I quite agree with you – they are,” said Mr Benham waggishly. “That will do, thank you.”
“That’s my defence, my lord,” said Mr Windgate.
Chapter Forty Six.
Life or Doom?
The prisoner, re-entering after the adjournment for lunch, found himself idly wondering whether, when next he should pass through the dock gate, it would be as a free man or as one whose days were numbered. Then, amid the intense hush that followed on his appearance, he heard his counsel opening his address to the jury, which, put into a good humour by a few deft if stereotyped compliments, began to think that after all there might be a good deal to be said on the side of the defence.
Before brushing aside the flimsy testimony which seemed to tell against the accused, for the prosecution had relied upon quantity to counterbalance an utter absence of quality, began Mr Windgate, he would show what manner of man it was whom they were asked to convict of the gravest crime known to the law. It was all very well for the prosecution to contend that a gentleman in his client’s position was as liable to commit crime as – say the historic Mr William Sikes. His own experience – perhaps fully equal to that of his learned brother opposite – was wholly against any such theory.
Then Mr Windgate launched forth into a brilliant panegyric of the accused, extolling his virtues in every capacity, public and private. Then he proceeded to deal with the evidence bit by bit, and as this involved a long repetition of all that has gone before, we shall not follow him through it. Suffice it to say that he handled his points with consummate skill.
When he came to Johnston his scorn was beautiful to behold. This fellow, who had eaten the bread of the accused and of his father before him for a number of years, had gone into the box with the most bare-faced and unblushing effrontery, and confessed to having played the part of a crawling serpent, a part whose loathsomeness, he, Mr Windgate, could find no terms adequately to stigmatise. What could the evidence of such a creature be worth? Why, nothing – less than nothing. But it was abundantly shown that the fellow harboured the greatest ill-will towards his master, who had frequently found fault with him for incivility, which, judging from his impudent demeanour in Court, was little to be wondered at. Then when he had grossly insulted his master’s wife, Mr Dorrien, very rightly in the speaker’s opinion, had discharged him summarily. So he swore to be revenged on his master – threatened him, as they had heard. A pretty witness this, to swear away a man’s life! Justice in England must be coming very low if such instruments as this could be capable of swaying her course. But, as a matter of fact, such was not the case. He could tell them that it was intended to institute proceedings against Johnston for wilful perjury, but that was by the way.
As for Devine, here, too, was a tainted witness, a corrupt witness, in fact. He, too, was known to bear a strong grudge against the accused, which, considering that he owed his comfortable place to Mr Dorrien’s influence – which his employer, it was to be hoped, would not suffer him to retain – was quite sufficient to show what sort of person he was. This precious rascal, then, had come into Court with a cock-and-bull story about witnessing a crime at Smugglers’ Ladder. Why, it was the most bare-faced, as well as clumsy, attempt at a diabolical conspiracy ever known – diabolical, because without motive, unless the motive were to shield himself, for if he, Devine, was there at all at that hour, his own presence needed explaining. It sickened him, Mr Windgate, to think that it was even necessary to defend such a case – a case bolstered up mainly by two witnesses of infamous character, whose evidence, even if true, was that of midnight spies. Who saw Devine at Smugglers’ Ladder at all that night, and what is the bare statement of a man of Devine’s record worth? Not the millionth fraction of a farthing.
After heaping up a good deal more denunciatory scorn upon these two and their testimony, he came to Pollock’s evidence. He had no wish to impute mala fides to a man of known honesty. Still, honest men were mistaken sometimes. This matter of identity rested upon evidence very shadowy. As to recognising the accused when he saw Durnford by lamplight on the beach, he, the speaker, prayed them to receive this statement with the greatest possible reserve. Here was the rector of Wandsborough and his curate, Mr Turner, both of whom were far better acquainted with the accused’s appearance than the witness Pollock, yet both these gentlemen had unhesitatingly sworn not only that they utterly failed to identify the prisoner in Robert Durnford, but that the barest suspicion as to such identity had never crossed their minds – and had not done so from that day to this. And further – here he begged the jury to give him all their attention – the lady rescued by Durnford was Dr Ingelow’s daughter. She was at that time, to her credit be it said, something more than interested in his client, whose wife she subsequently became, a fact which precluded her from giving valuable evidence on Mr Dorrien’s behalf. Was it likely then, he asked, that this estimable lady would have kept silence these two years and a half as to who her rescuer really was – that she should never have mentioned the fact to her own father, with whom she had ever been on the most dutiful and affectionate terms? Why, of course it was not. He put it to them as sensible men – fathers themselves, most probably – and so on.
“By Jove! Windgate’s scored a point there, Rogers,” whispered the sporting junior. “If only he can squash the envelope business!”
But this was just what he could not – and Mr Windgate knew it himself. He tried his best though, as also with the other damning points. At last his speech came near its close.
The evidence, he continued, consisted of a series of mere coincidences – one or two of them, it might be, a little remarkable, but – coincidences. The time had gone by in this country, he thanked Heaven, when men were convicted on purely circumstantial evidence. As for the motive which the prosecution had evolved, it was, he made bold to say, the veriest mare’s nest. Why, several of the most reliable witnesses had stated on oath that there wae no ill-will between the two brothers, and that on the whole they were on good terms. He wae not there to defend the absent Durnford, since it was abundantly proved that with that mysterious personage his client had nothing whatever to do, but he would just remark that in the conflicting evidence in the matter of the hall clock and the maid-servant’s watch, it was merely oath against oath – and that nothing was more confusing than differences in time. The witness Grainger had utterly failed to identify the accused. Under the prosecution’s very bewildering cross-examination he had, it was true, been afflicted with a temporary misgiving, but that was perfectly natural under the circumstances. So against two rogues, and one honest man, who could not be quite sure as to his statements, they had the positive evidence of Dr Ingelow and Mr Turner against the identity. That was to say, the two witnesses in this case to whom the accused had always been best known. And all the side evidence made for his client.
“Gentlemen,” he concluded, in his most impressive manner, “I now call upon you honourably to acquit my client. Remember, with you rests the most awful responsibility which can be laid upon the shoulders of mortal men – the life or death of a fellow creature. You must either honourably acquit him or doom him to an ignominious death. There is no middle course – absolutely none.”
“Good old phrase that,” muttered the sporting junior, chuckling inwardly over the scared look on the wooden faces of the twelve intelligent Englishmen.
” – Therefore, I call upon you to record your true sentiments, the sentiments of upright and true Englishmen, and to acquit with honour my client, to restore a wronged but high-minded gentleman to his family – to a fond wife, whose affliction during these terrible weeks I dare not imagine – to that neighbourhood which is anxiously waiting to receive him back with acclamation – to a long, benevolent, and useful life, which he has already begun most signally to adorn.
“Gentlemen, I leave my client in your hands with perfect confidence as to the result.”
A few moments of silence, and then the Crown counsel, who had been, to all outward appearance, intently studying his brief, rose.
The prisoner in the dock, he proceeded to say, was of a class whose members, happily, in this country, seldom filled that unfortunate position. He was a gentleman of affluence, more or less known to them all, and holding a high and influential station. They might reason that on that account, if any man was free from all temptation to such a crime as the one under their consideration, that man would be the prisoner before them. But this was precisely what they must not do. He, the learned counsel, could assure them that human nature in this respect was marvellously similar. All his experience – and it had not been inconsiderable – went to confirm him in that opinion. – And so on.
Then he proceeded to draw a graphic and rather harrowing picture of the disappearance of the deceased and the terrible blow to the feelings of his relatives which this re-opening of their grief must prove, going on to dissect the evidence bit by bit.
“The identity of the prisoner with the stranger known as Robert Durnford is as clear as daylight,” proceeded Mr Benham. “You will notice that the persons who saw through this disguise were those to whom he was or had been best known. Andrew Johnston, an old family servant, recognised him at once. Stephen Devine, formerly a labourer on the Cranston estate, and since gamekeeper to Colonel Neville – both these men had had abundant opportunities of being acquainted with the prisoner’s appearance. Their suspicions aroused, they took further occasion to observe the so-called Durnford, with the result that those suspicions were fully confirmed. To this they had sworn – again and again. Then there is James Pollock, a man of the greatest respectability – to him Roland Dorrien was not so well known as to the other witnesses mentioned, yet, being a man of keen perceptions, he had recognised him. Not the first time, indeed – though even then the voice had struck upon his ears as familiar. But on the second occasion of their being brought together, meeting with the so-called Durnford on the occasion of Miss Olive Ingelow’s rescue from drowning, he saw through his disguise at a glance, and in the man he had met coming away from Smugglers’ Ladder, between nine and half-past on the evening of the murder, he recognised the prisoner, Roland Dorrien. Now here are three persons who distinctly swear to the identity between these two. Nor is that all. There is Joseph Grainger, the waiter at ‘The Silver Fleece,’ at the time of Durnford’s stay at that inn. He comes here. He sees the prisoner in his normal costume and wearing his ordinary aspect, and he does not recognise him – at first. Indeed, he even goes so far as to emphasise the statement. But memory will not be cheated. As he stands there, the striking similarity of the accused to the pseudo-Durnford recalls itself to his mind, and he is dumbfounded. Gentlemen, you saw him – his air of utter astonishment, almost of awe, as he looked at the prisoner. You witnessed his refusal to swear to the two men being different. That is enough. Sensible men like yourselves can draw but one inference.
“Now as to the time at which Durnford returned to ‘The Silver Fleece,’ there is a conflict of testimony, but a perfectly reconcilable one. The waiter swears to the guest’s return at five-and-twenty minutes to ten. The maid-servant, Jane Flinders, swears with equal certitude to hearing Durnford come in at a quarter-past ten, and more than half the issue turns on this point. But, gentlemen, bear this in mind. The waiter Grainger was asleep. When he awoke, Durnford had already passed the hall clock, which then marked the hour of nine thirty-five. Durnford could reach the clock, be it remembered. But he could not reach Jane Flinders’ watch. Gentlemen, you will draw your own conclusions. One more point in connection with this. Pollock’s evidence proves that he met the stranger on the cliff, close to Smugglers’ Ladder, at half-past nine. But the stranger is back in his hotel at Battisford by five-and-twenty minutes to ten. That is to say, he covers in five or ten minutes a distance which it has been proved by the most competent testimony could hardly be covered in five-and-thirty. And then, when Grainger asks him if he returned by way of the cliffs, he appears surprised, and would have the other believe him unaware of there being any way by the cliffs.
