The horrible bluntness of the question nearly felled Marcus to the floor.  He placed his hand on his brow, now pale with the acutest anguish.  Then he rose, and, looking upward said: 

“As God is my judge, and as I hope for heaven, I am innocent of this murder, or of any part in it.”

“If you please, Mr. Coroner, this gentleman and myself are counsel for the accused,” said Overtop.

“Oh! you’re his counsel.  Then the other two are the chaps arrested as ’complices?”

Patching writhed at this.  Nor were his feelings relieved by observing, with an oblique glance, that the artist of the illustrated paper was in the act of taking him.

“I protest,” said Wesley Tiffles, rising to his full height, and throwing out both arms for a comprehensive gesture, “I protest against this arrest and detention as illegal.  If the coroner will give me but a short hour of his valuable time, I can—­”

CORONER (puffing up).  “The gentleman will be good enough to shut up for the present.  When we are ready, we will hear what he has to say.”

TIFFLES.  “I protest, sir.  I wish the gentlemanly and intelligent reporters to note that I protest—­”

CORONER.  “Are you, or me, boss here, hey?”

TIFFLES.  “Oh! you, of course, sir.”  The protestant then sank into his seat, not wholly disappointed, for he had gained his object of making a little newspaper capital by tickling the reporters.  He had also remarked, with pleasure, that, while he stood erect, with both arms outstretched, the artist had secured his full length.  Tiffles was fond of notoriety, however achieved; and he saw a good opening for it in this case.

Overtop here suggested that it would be easy to prove their client’s innocence.  He would respectfully request his Honor to procure the testimony of Miss Patty Minford, if she could be found.  As she went to bed in the adjoining room early that evening, she must have heard some noise in connection with the murder—­if, indeed, a murder had been committed.  Overtop’s legal education taught him to doubt everything.

Coroner Bullfast was touched with the title of Honor, so skilfully applied by Overtop; and he answered, with uncommon sweetness: 

“I am expecting Miss Minford every minute, sir.  She will speak for herself.  For the present, sir, I am sorry to say that it was on her testimony alone that Mr. Wilkingson was ’rested.”

A look of new surprise and horror passed over the pale face of Marcus, and Overtop and Maltboy exchanged glances of astonishment.

“Now, Mr. Wilkingson,” continued the coroner, taking a fresh chew, “please drive ahead with yer statement—­if yer choose to.  Yer not bound to say anythink, yer know.”

AN INTELLIGENT JUROR.  “Will Mr. Wilkeson tell us about what time he left this house that night, and where he went?”

Marcus raised his sunken head, and shook it, as if to dispel a stupefaction.  Then, in a faint and trembling voice, he replied that he looked at his watch just before bidding Mr. Minford “good-night,” and-observed that it was fifteen minutes past eleven o’clock.