“Yes, you’re quite right,” he repeated huskily, as though some one had doubted the statement.  “Evans is my name and I’m not ashamed of it.”

“He came to me this morning and told me that Hill gave false evidence at the inquest yesterday,” Inspector Seldon explained.  “So I brought him along to see you.”

“False evidence—­Hill?” exclaimed Inspector Chippenfield, with keen interest.  “Let us hear about it.”

“Well, you will remember Hill said he was at home on the night of the murder,” pursued Inspector Seldon.  “I looked up his depositions before I came away and what he said was this:  ’I took my daughter to the Zoo in the afternoon.  We left the Zoo at half past five and went home and had tea.  My wife then took the child to the picture-palace and I remained at home.  I did not go out that night.  They returned about half-past ten, and after supper we all went to bed.’  But Evans tells me he saw Hill in his bar at three o’clock on the morning of the 19th of August.  He has an early license for the accommodation of the Covent Garden traffic.  He can swear to Hill.  A man who goes to bed at half-past ten has no right to be wandering about Covent Garden at 3 a. m.  And besides, Hill told us nothing about this.  So I brought Evans along to see what you make of it.”

Inspector Chippenfield had taken up a pencil and was making a few notes.

“Very interesting indeed,” he said.  Then he turned to Evans and asked, “Are you sure you saw Hill in your bar at three a. m.?  There is no possibility of a mistake?”

“He is the man who was knocked down outside by a porter running into him,” said Mr. Evans, mopping his eyes.  “I could bring half a dozen witnesses who will swear to him.”

“You see, it’s this way,” interpolated Inspector Seldon, taking up the landlord’s narrative.  His police-court training had taught him to bring out the salient points of a story, and he was naturally of the opinion that he could tell another man’s story better than the man could tell it himself.  “Hill was staring about him—­it was probably the first time he had been to Covent Garden in the early morning—­and got knocked over.  He was stunned, and some porters took him in to the bar, sat him on a form, and poured some rum into him.  Some of the porters were for ringing up the ambulance; others were for carrying Hill off to the hospital, but he soon recovered.  However, he sat there for about twenty minutes, and after having several drinks at his own expense he went away.  Evans served him with the drinks.”

“Good,” said Inspector Chippenfield, who liked the circumstantial details of the story.  “And you can get half a dozen porters to identify him?”

“Bill Cribb, Harry Winch, Charlie Brown, a fellow they call ’Green Violets’—­I don’t know his real name—­”

Mr. Evans was calling on his memory for further names but was stopped by Inspector Chippenfield.

“That will do very well.  And how did you happen to be at the inquest at Hampstead?  That is a bit out of your way.”