Mr. Taynton was present in court, and was sitting on the bench to the right of the judge who had long been a personal friend of his.  Hitherto his face had been hidden in his hands, as this terribly logical tale went on.  But here he raised it, and smiled, a wan smile enough, at Morris.  The latter did not seem to notice the action.  Counsel for the prosecution continued.

All this, he said, had been brought forward at the trial before the police-court magistrates, and he thought the jury would agree that it was more than sufficient to commit the prisoner to trial.  At that trial, too, they had heard, the whole world had heard, of the mystery of the missing watch, and the missing money.  No money, at least, had been found on the body; it was reasonable to refer to it as “missing.”  But here again, the motive of self-preservation came in; the whole thing had been carefully planned; the prisoner, counsel suggested, had, just as he had gone up to town to find Mr. Mills the day after the murder was committed, striven to put justice off the scent in making it appear that the motive for the crime, had been robbery.  With well-calculated cunning he had taken the watch and what coins there were, from the pockets of his victim.  That at any rate was the theory suggested by the prosecution.

The speech was admirably delivered, and its virtue was its extreme impassiveness; it seemed quite impersonal, the mere automatic action of justice, not revengeful, not seeking for death, but merely stating the case as it might be stated by some planet or remote fixed star.  Then there was a short pause, while the prosecutor for the Crown laid down his notes.  And the same slow, clear, impassive voice went on.

“But since the committal of the prisoner to stand his trial at these assizes,” he said, “more evidence of an utterly unexpected, but to us convincing kind has been discovered.  Here it is.”  And he held up a sheet of blotting paper, and a crumpled envelope.

“A letter has been blotted on this sheet,” he said, “and by holding it up to the light and looking through it, one can, of course, read what was written.  But before I read it, I will tell you from where this sheet was taken.  It was taken from a blotting book in the drawing-room of Mrs. Assheton’s house in Sussex Square.  An expert in handwriting will soon tell the gentlemen of the jury in whose hand he without doubt considers it to be written.  After the committal of the prisoner to trial, search was of course made in this house, for further evidence.  This evidence was almost immediately discovered.  After that no further search was made.”

The judge looked up from his notes.

“By whom was this discovery made?” he asked.

“By Superintendent Figgis and Sergeant Wilkinson, my lord.  They will give their evidence.”

He waited till the judge had entered this.

“I will read the letter,” he said, “from the negative, so to speak, of the blotting paper.”