“An attempt at assassination?” echoed the inspector, turning towards us for an explanation.

“That is the charge,” I replied.

“And who dares make such an assertion?” Mr. Brown asked, his face pale with suppressed excitement.

“Mr. Follet has presented the complaint to me, and backed it with some proof that looks conclusive,” the commissioner said, pointing to the perjured villain, who stood with sullen aspect a short distance from us.

“Do you dare bring such a charge against these men?” asked the inspector, facing the lying scamp, and endeavoring to get a glimpse at his face.  “Take time for your answer, and consider the suspicious manner in which you stand in the estimation of the police at Ballarat.  I know you and your doings.”

Follet made an appealing gesture to the commissioner, and the latter interfered.

“I will have no browbeating of the witness,” he said.  “He appeared before me in good faith, and until his assertions are contradicted, I shall consider that he is under my protection.”

“But if I can show you that he is unworthy of belief, and that for months past he has been in the habit of gambling with money which he has purloined from his uncle, and that he owes large debts which he has contracted, and is unable to pay, will that have any effect upon you in judging of this matter?” demanded Mr. Brown, with some warmth.

“If you can prove to me that these young men are innocent of the charge, then I shall be ready to listen to complaints against Follet, but not until then.  Bad habits sometimes prejudice the minds of a jury against a witness, and testimony is weighed in connection with circumstantial matters which are brought to light.  I think that we have a strong case, for there are marks of blood, and the victim is found under this roof almost lifeless, but with bandages on the wounds.  Now it is a question in my mind, whether this binding up of the injuries is not a trick for the purpose of escaping punishment.  If—­”

“But these men are above suspicion,” cried the inspector, impatiently.

“I have not finished yet,” the commissioner said, coldly.  “I was about to observe that if more evidence was wanting this would complete it;” and bending down, he inserted his arm in a barrel that was partially filled with rice, and to our utter consternation, held up to our view a sheath knife covered with blood.

“Perhaps your friends can account for the presence of this knife in their store?” asked the commissioner, with a cold smile at the distress that he saw upon our faces.

“We cannot,” I answered.  “We had two dozen of just such knives when we commenced business, and sold the last one that we had yesterday.”

“I will wager a hundred ounces that Follet put the knife in the barrel when he visited the store this morning,” cried the inspector, dogmatically.

“Did you sell a knife of this pattern to Mr. Follet?” asked Sherwin, turning to us.