“When he had finished his tea he lolled out again, but no sooner had he disappeared down a turning of the road than the waiter discovered an old umbrella, left behind accidentally by the shabby, talkative individual.  As is the custom in his highly respectable restaurant, Signor Torriani put the umbrella carefully away in his office, on the chance of his customer calling to claim it when he had discovered his loss.  And sure enough nearly a week later, on Tuesday, the 16th, at about 1 p.m., the same shabbily dressed individual called and asked for his umbrella.  He had some lunch, and chatted once again to the waiter.  Signor Torriani and the waiter gave a description of William Kershaw, which coincided exactly with that given by Mrs. Kershaw of her husband.

“Oddly enough he seemed to be a very absent-minded sort of person, for on this second occasion, no sooner had he left than the waiter found a pocket-book in the coffee-room, underneath the table.  It contained sundry letters and bills, all addressed to William Kershaw.  This pocket-book was produced, and Karl Mueller, who had returned to the court, easily identified it as having belonged to his dear and lamented friend ‘Villiam.’

“This was the first blow to the case against the accused.  It was a pretty stiff one, you will admit.  Already it had begun to collapse like a house of cards.  Still, there was the assignation, and the undisputed meeting between Smethurst and Kershaw, and those two and a half hours of a foggy evening to satisfactorily account for.”

The man in the corner made a long pause, keeping the girl on tenterhooks.  He had fidgeted with his bit of string till there was not an inch of it free from the most complicated and elaborate knots.

“I assure you,” he resumed at last, “that at that very moment the whole mystery was, to me, as clear as daylight.  I only marvelled how his Honour could waste his time and mine by putting what he thought were searching questions to the accused relating to his past.  Francis Smethurst, who had quite shaken off his somnolence, spoke with a curious nasal twang, and with an almost imperceptible soupcon of foreign accent, He calmly denied Kershaw’s version of his past; declared that he had never been called Barker, and had certainly never been mixed up in any murder case thirty years ago.

“‘But you knew this man Kershaw,’ persisted his Honour, ’since you wrote to him?’

“‘Pardon me, your Honour,’ said the accused quietly, ’I have never, to my knowledge, seen this man Kershaw, and I can swear that I never wrote to him.’

“‘Never wrote to him?’ retorted his Honour warningly.  ’That is a strange assertion to make when I have two of your letters to him in my hands at the present moment.’

“‘I never wrote those letters, your Honour,’ persisted the accused quietly, ‘they are not in my handwriting.’

“‘Which we can easily prove,’ came in Sir Arthur Inglewood’s drawly tones, as he handed up a packet to his Honour; ’here are a number of letters written by my client since he has landed in this country, and some of which were written under my very eyes.’