Then at last and not until then—­on the morning of the twenty-first day—­did Ah Fong tell his simple story and the jury for the first time learn what it was all about.  But by then they had entirely ceased to care, being engrossed in watching Mr. Tutt at his daily amusement of torturing O’Brien into a state of helpless exasperation.

Ah Fong gave his testimony with a clarity of detail that left nothing to be desired, and he was corroborated in most respects by the Italian woman, who identified Mock Hen as the Chinaman with the iron bar.  Their evidence was supplemented by that of Bull Neck Burke and Miss Malone, who also were positive that they had seen Mock running from the scene of the murder at exactly four-one o’clock.

Mr. Tutt hardly cross-examined Fong at all, but with Mr. Burke he pursued very different tactics, speedily rousing the wrestler to such a condition of fury that he was hardly articulate, for the old lawyer gently hinted that Mr. Burke was inventing the whole story for the purpose of assisting his friends in the On Gee Tong.

“But I tell yer I don’t know no Chinks!” bellowed Burke, looking more like a bull than ever.  “This here Mock Hen run right by me.  My goil saw him too.  I looked at me ticker to get the time!”

“Ah!  Then you expected to be a witness for the On Gee Tong!”

“Naw!  I tell yer I was walkin’ wit’ me goil!”

“What is the lady’s name?”

“Miss Malone.”

“What is her occupation?”

“She’s a gay burlesquer.”

“A gay burlesquer?”

“Sure—­champagne goil and gay burlesquer.”

“A champagne girl!”

“Dat’s what I said.”

“You mean that she is upon the stage?”

“Sure—­dat’s it!”

“Oh!” Mr. Tutt looked relieved.

“What had you and Miss Malone been doing that afternoon?”

“I told yer—­walkin’.”

Mr. Tutt coughed slightly.

“Is that all?”

“Say, watcha drivin’ at?”

Mr. Tutt elevated his bushy eyebrows.

“How do you earn your living?” he demanded, changing his method of attack.

Bull Neck allowed his head to sink still farther into the vast bulk of his immense torso, strangely resembling, in this position, the fabled anthropophagi whose heads are reputed thus to “grow beneath their shoulders.”

Then throwing out his jaw he announced proudly between set teeth:  “I’m a perfessor of physical sculture!”

The jury sniggered.  Mr. Tutt appeared politely puzzled.

“A professor of what?”

“A perfessor of physical sculture!” repeated Bull Neck with great satisfaction.

“Oh!  A professor of physical sculpture!” exclaimed Mr. Tutt, light breaking over his wrinkled countenance.  “And what may that be?”

Bull Neck looked round disgustedly at the jury as if to say:  “What ignorance!”

“Trainin’ an’ developin’ prominent people!” he explained.