other, I and this man, who was talking aloud to himself—he, instead of going on, stopped and turned towards me. That made me feel queer and uncomfortable, the more so that there was a very wild, mad look on his face. I said to him, as soothingly as possible, ‘A very foggy night, sir.’ And he said, ‘Yes—yes, it is a foggy night, a night fit for the commission of dark and salutary deeds.’ A very strange phrase, sir, that—‘dark and salutary deeds.’" He looked at the coroner expectantly
"Well? Well, Mr. Cannot? Was that all? Did you see this person go off in the direction of—of King’s Cross, for instance?"
"No." Mr. Cannot reluctantly shook his head. "No, I must honestly say I did not. He walked along a certain way by my side, and then he crossed the road and was lost in the fog."
"That will do," said the coroner. He spoke more kindly. "I thank you, Mr. Cannot, for coming here and giving us what you evidently consider important information."
Mr. Cannot bowed, a funny, little, old-fashioned bow, and again some of those present tittered rather foolishly.
As he was stepping down from the witness-box, he turned and looked up at the coroner, opening his lips as he did so. There was a murmur of talking going on, but Mrs. Bunting, at any rate, heard quite distinctly what it was that he said:
"One thing I have forgotten, sir, which may be of importance. The man carried a bag—a rather light-
