“You say you heard the man Wynne groaning and moaning on the garden pathway after he was shot, and then practically saw him die?”

“I did, sir.”

“And yet, a man killed in that fashion, hit in that particular portion of the temple, always dies instantaneously.  Isn’t that rather strange?”

Borkins went red.

“I have nothing to say, sir.  Simply what I heard.”

“H’m.  Well, certainly the evidence does dovetail in, and the doctors may have been wrong in this instance.  We can look into that evidence later.  Stand down.”

Borkins stood down with something like a sigh of relief, and pushed his way back into his place, his friends nodding to him and congratulating him upon the way he had given his evidence.

Then Tony West was called, and told all that he had to tell of his knowledge of the night’s happenings in a rather irritated manner, as though the whole thing bored him utterly, and he couldn’t for the life of him make out why any one even dreamed that old Nigel had murdered a man.  He told the coroner something of this before he finished, and as he returned to his place a murmur of approval went up.  His manner had taken the public fancy, and they would have liked to hear more of him.

But there was another piece of evidence to be shown, and this took the form of a scrap of creased white paper.

It was waved aloft in the coroner’s hand, so that everyone could see it.

“This,” said the coroner, “is an I.O.U. found upon the dead man, for two thousand pounds, and signed with the name of Lester Stark.  An important piece of evidence, this.  Will Mr. Stark kindly come forward?”

There was a rustle at the back of the court, and Stark pushed his way to the front, his face rather red, his eyes a trifle shamefaced.  As he came, Merriton was conscious of a quickening of his pulse, of a leap of his heart, though he loathed himself afterward for the sensation.  His eyes went toward ’Toinette, and he saw that she was looking at him, with all the love that was in her soul laid bare for him—­and all—­to see.  It cheered him, as she meant it should.

Then Stark took his place upon the witness stand.

“This I.O.U. belongs to you, I take it?” said the coroner, briskly.

“It does, sir.”

“And it was made out two days before the prisoner met his death.  The signature is yours?”

Stark bowed.  His eyes sought Nigel’s and rested upon the pale, lined face with every appearance of concern.  Then he looked back at the coroner.

“Dacre Wynne lent me that money two days before he came down to visit Merriton.  No one knew of it, except he and I. We had never been good friends—­in fact, I believe he hated me.  My mother had been—­well, kind to him in the old days, and I suppose he hadn’t forgotten it.  Anyhow, there was family difficulty.  My—­my pater left some considerable debts which we found we were obliged to face.  There