LITMIR.BIZ

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trembled as that poor, bedraggled, common-looking person was trembling now. The woman had looked so cheerful, so—so well pleased with herself till a minute ago, but now she had become very pale, and she looked round her as a hunted animal might have done.

      But the coroner was very kind, very soothing and gentle in his manner, just as that other coroner had been when dealing with Ellen Green at the inquest on that poor drowned girl.

      After the witness had repeated in a toneless voice the solemn words of the oath, she began to be taken, step by step, though her story. At once Mrs. Bunting realised that this was the woman who claimed to have seen The Avenger from her bedroom window. Gaining confidence, as she went on, the witness described how she had heard a long-drawn, stifled screech, and, aroused from deep sleep, had instinctively jumped out of bed and rushed to her window.

      The coroner looked down at something lying on his desk. “Let me see! Here is the plan. Yes—I think I understand that the house in which you are lodging exactly faces the alley where the two crimes were committed?”

      And there arose a quick, futile discussion. The house did not face the alley, but the window of the witness’s bedroom faced the alley.

      “A distinction without a difference,” said the coroner testily. “And now tell us as clearly and quickly as you can what you saw when you looked out.”

      There fell a dead silence on the crowded court. And then the woman broke out, speaking more volubly and firmly than she had yet done. “I saw ’im!” she cried. “I shall never forget it—no, not till my dying day!” And she looked round defiantly.

      Mrs. Bunting suddenly remembered a chat one of the newspaper men had had with a person who slept under this woman’s room. That person had unkindly said she felt sure that Lizzie Cole had not got up that night—that she had made up the whole story. She, the speaker, slept lightly, and that night had been tending a sick child. Accordingly, she would have heard if there had been either the scream described by Lizzie Cole, or the sound of Lizzie Cole jumping out of bed.

      “We quite understand that you think you saw the”—the coroner hesitated—“the individual who had just perpetrated these terrible crimes. But what we want to have from you is a description of him. In spite of the foggy atmosphere about which all are agreed, you say you saw him distinctly, walking along for some yards below your window. Now, please, try and tell us what he was like.”

      The woman began twisting and untwisting the corner of a coloured handkerchief she held in her hand.

      “Let us begin at the beginning,” said the coroner patiently. “What sort of a hat was this man wearing when you saw him hurrying from the passage?”

      “It was just a black ‘at” said the witness at last, in a husky, rather anxious tone.

      “Yes—just a black hat. And a coat—were you able to see what sort of a coat he was wearing?”

      “‘E ‘adn’t got no coat” she said decidedly. “No coat at all! I remembers that very perticulerly. I thought it queer, as it was so cold—everybody as can wears some sort o’ coat this weather!”

      A juryman who had been looking at a strip of newspaper, and apparently not attending at all to what the witness was saying, here jumped up and put out his hand.

      “Yes?” the coroner turned to him.

      “I just want to say that this ’ere witness—if her name is Lizzie Cole, began by saying The Avenger was wearing a coat—a big, heavy coat. I’ve got it here, in this bit of paper.”

      “I never said so!” cried the woman passionately. “I was made to say all those things by the young man what came to me from the Evening Sun. Just put in what ’e liked in ‘is paper, ’e did—not what I said at all!”

      At this there was some laughter, quickly suppressed.

      “In future,” said the coroner severely, addressing the juryman, who had now sat down again, “you must ask any question you wish to ask through your foreman, and please wait till I have concluded my examination of the witness.”

      But this interruption, this—this accusation, had utterly upset the witness. She began contradicting herself hopelessly. The man she had seen hurrying by in the semi-darkness below was tall—no, he was short. He was thin—no, he was a stoutish young man. And as to whether he was carrying anything, there was quite an acrimonious discussion.

      Most positively, most confidently, the witness declared that she had seen a newspaper parcel under his arm; it had bulged out at the back —so she declared. But it was proved, very gently and firmly, that she had said nothing of the kind to the gentleman from Scotland Yard who had taken down her first account—in fact, to him she had declared confidently that the man had carried nothing—nothing at all; that she had seen his arms swinging up and down.

      One fact—if fact it could be called—the coroner did elicit. Lizzie Cole suddenly volunteered the statement that as he had passed her window he had looked up at her. This was quite a new statement.

      “He looked up at you?” repeated the coroner. “You said nothing of that in your examination.”

      “I said nothink because I was scared—nigh scared to death!”

      “If you could really see his countenance, for we know the night was dark and foggy, will you please tell me what he was like?”

      But the coroner was speaking casually, his hand straying over his desk; not a creature in that court now believed the woman’s story.

      “Dark!” she answered dramatically. “Dark, almost black! If you can take my meaning, with a sort of nigger look.”

      And then there was a titter. Even the jury smiled. And sharply the coroner bade Lizzie Cole stand down.

      Far more credence was given to the evidence of the next witness.

      This was an older, quieter-looking woman, decently dressed in black. Being the wife of a night watchman whose work lay in a big warehouse situated about a hundred yards from the alley or passage where the crimes had taken place, she had gone out to take her husband some food he always had at one in the morning. And a man had passed her, breathing hard and walking very quickly. Her attention had been drawn to him because she very seldom met anyone at that hour, and because he had such an odd, peculiar look and manner.

      Mrs. Bunting, listening attentively, realised that it was very much from what this witness had said that the official description of The Avenger had been composed—that description which had brought such comfort to her, Ellen Bunting’s, soul.

      This witness spoke quietly, confidently, and her account of the newspaper parcel the man was carrying was perfectly clear and positive.

      “It was a neat parcel,” she said, “done up with string.”

      She had thought it an odd thing for a respectably dressed young man to carry such a parcel—that was what had made her notice it. But when pressed, she had to admit that it had been a very foggy night —so foggy that she herself had been afraid of losing her way, though every step was familiar.

      When the third woman went into the box, and with sighs and tears told of her acquaintance with one of the deceased, with Johanna Cobbett, there was a stir of sympathetic attention. But she had nothing to say throwing any light on the investigation, save that she admitted reluctantly that “Anny” would have been such a nice, respectable young woman if it hadn’t been for the drink.

      Her examination was shortened as much as possible; and so was that of the next witness, the husband of Johanna Cobbett. He was a very respectable-looking man, a foreman in a big business house at Croydon. He seemed to feel his position most acutely. He hadn’t seen his wife for two years; he hadn’t had news of her for six months. Before she took to drink she had been an admirable wife, and—and yes, mother.

      Yet another painful few minutes, to anyone who had a heart, or imagination to understand, was spent when the father of the murdered woman was in the box. He had had later

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