“The next witness, Constable Thomas Taylor, had noticed a shabbily dressed individual, with shaggy hair and beard, loafing about the station and waiting-rooms in the afternoon of December the 10th.  He seemed to be watching the arrival platform of the Tilbury and Southend trains.

“Two separate and independent witnesses, cleverly unearthed by the police, had seen this same shabbily dressed individual stroll into the first-class waiting-room at about 6.15 on Wednesday, December the 10th, and go straight up to a gentleman in a heavy fur coat and cap, who had also just come into the room.  The two talked together for a while; no one heard what they said, but presently they walked off together.  No one seemed to know in which direction.

“Francis Smethurst was rousing himself from his apathy; he whispered to his lawyer, who nodded with a bland smile of encouragement.  The employes of the Hotel Cecil gave evidence as to the arrival of Mr. Smethurst at about 9.30 p.m. on Wednesday, December the 10th, in a cab, with a quantity of luggage; and this closed the case for the prosecution.

“Everybody in that court already saw Smethurst mounting the gallows.  It was uninterested curiosity which caused the elegant audience to wait and hear what Sir Arthur Inglewood had to say.  He, of course, is the most fashionable man in the law at the present moment.  His lolling attitudes, his drawling speech, are quite the rage, and imitated by the gilded youth of society.

“Even at this moment, when the Siberian millionaire’s neck literally and metaphorically hung in the balance, an expectant titter went round the fair spectators as Sir Arthur stretched out his long loose limbs and lounged across the table.  He waited to make his effect—­Sir Arthur is a born actor—­and there is no doubt that he made it, when in his slowest, most drawly tones he said quietly;

“’With regard to this alleged murder of one William Kershaw, on Wednesday, December the 10th, between 6.15 and 8.45 p.m., your Honour, I now propose to call two witnesses, who saw this same William Kershaw alive on Tuesday afternoon, December the 16th, that is to say, six days after the supposed murder.’

“It was as if a bombshell had exploded in the court.  Even his Honour was aghast, and I am sure the lady next to me only recovered from the shock of the surprise in order to wonder whether she need put off her dinner party after all.

“As for me,” added the man in the corner, with that strange mixture of nervousness and self-complacency which had set Miss Polly Burton wondering, “well, you see, I had made up my mind long ago where the hitch lay in this particular case, and I was not so surprised as some of the others.

“Perhaps you remember the wonderful development of the case, which so completely mystified the police—­and in fact everybody except myself.  Torriani and a waiter at his hotel in the Commercial Road both deposed that at about 3.30 p.m. on December the 10th a shabbily dressed individual lolled into the coffee-room and ordered some tea.  He was pleasant enough and talkative, told the waiter that his name was William Kershaw, that very soon all London would be talking about him, as he was about, through an unexpected stroke of good fortune, to become a very rich man, and so on, and so on, nonsense without end.