“It was a mistake; I was thinking of something else.”

“I know it was a mistake.  You referred to a paper that was in your hand.”

“I did not refer to it, I merely looked at it.  It is a letter from the Society of Paralysed Idiots.  It is nothing to do with me really, you know; I don’t belong to the society, or anything of that sort.”

“Did you mistake that paper for some other paper?”

“Yes, I took it for a paper with some notes on it to assist my memory.”

“What kind of notes?”

“Oh, just the questions I was likely to be asked.”

“Were the answers that you were to give to those questions also written on the paper?”

“Of course they were.  The questions would not have been any use without the answers.”

“Have you been asked the questions that were written on the paper?”

“Yes; at least, some of them.”

“Have you given the answers that were written down?”

“I don’t think I have—­in fact, I am sure I haven’t, because, you see—­”

“Ah! you don’t think you have.”  Sir Hector Trumpler smiled significantly at the jury, and continued—­

“Now who wrote down those questions and answers?”

“My nephew, Walter Hornby.  He thought, you know—­”

“Never mind what he thought.  Who advised or instructed him to write them down?”

“Nobody.  It was entirely his own idea, and very thoughtful of him, too, though Dr. Jervis took the paper away from me and said I must rely on my memory.”

Sir Hector was evidently rather taken aback by this answer, and sat down suddenly, with a distinctly chapfallen air.

“Where is this paper on which the questions and answers are written?” asked the judge.  In anticipation of this inquiry I had already handed it to Thorndyke, and had noted by the significant glance that he bestowed on me that he had not failed to observe the peculiarity in the type.  Indeed the matter was presently put beyond all doubt, for he hastily passed to me a scrap of paper, on which I found, when I opened it out, that he had written “X = W.H.”

As Anstey handed the rather questionable document up to the judge, I glanced at Walter Hornby and observed him to flush angrily, though he strove to appear calm and unconcerned, and the look that he directed at his aunt was very much the reverse of benevolent.

“Is this the paper?” asked the judge, passing it down to the witness.

“Yes, your worship,” answered Mrs. Hornby, in a tremulous voice; whereupon the document was returned to the judge, who proceeded to compare it with his notes.

“I shall order this document to be impounded,” said he sternly, after making a brief comparison.  “There has been a distinct attempt to tamper with witnesses.  Proceed with your case, Mr. Anstey.”

There was a brief pause, during which Mrs. Hornby tottered across the court and resumed her seat, gasping with excitement and relief; then the usher called out—­