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
