‘Miss Hale denies she was there!’ repeated Mr. Thornton, in an altered voice.  ‘Tell me, what evening was it?  What time?’

’About six o’clock, on the evening of Thursday, the twenty-sixth.’

They walked on, side by side, in silence for a minute or two.  The inspector was the first to speak.

’You see, sir, there is like to be a coroner’s inquest; and I’ve got a young man who is pretty positive,—­at least he was at first;—­since he has heard of the young lady’s denial, he says he should not like to swear; but still he’s pretty positive that he saw Miss Hale at the station, walking about with a gentleman, not five minutes before the time, when one of the porters saw a scuffle, which he set down to some of Leonards’ impudence—­but which led to the fall which caused his death.  And seeing you come out of the very house, sir, I thought I might make bold to ask if—­you see, it’s always awkward having to do with cases of disputed identity, and one doesn’t like to doubt the word of a respectable young woman unless one has strong proof to the contrary.’

‘And she denied having been at the station that evening!’ repeated Mr. Thornton, in a low, brooding tone.

’Yes, sir, twice over, as distinct as could be.  I told her I should call again, but seeing you just as I was on my way back from questioning the young man who said it was her, I thought I would ask your advice, both as the magistrate who saw Leonards on his death-bed, and as the gentleman who got me my berth in the force.’

‘You were quite right,’ said Mr. Thornton.  ’Don’t take any steps till you have seen me again.’

‘The young lady will expect me to call, from what I said.’

’I only want to delay you an hour.  It’s now three.  Come to my warehouse at four.’

‘Very well, sir!’

And they parted company.  Mr. Thornton hurried to his warehouse, and, sternly forbidding his clerks to allow any one to interrupt him, he went his way to his own private room, and locked the door.  Then he indulged himself in the torture of thinking it all over, and realising every detail.  How could he have lulled himself into the unsuspicious calm in which her tearful image had mirrored itself not two hours before, till he had weakly pitied her and yearned towards her, and forgotten the savage, distrustful jealousy with which the sight of her—­and that unknown to him—­at such an hour—­in such a place—­had inspired him!  How could one so pure have stooped from her decorous and noble manner of bearing!  But was it decorous—­was it?  He hated himself for the idea that forced itself upon him, just for an instant—­no more—­and yet, while it was present, thrilled him with its old potency of attraction towards her image.  And then this falsehood—­how terrible must be some dread of shame to be revealed—­for, after all, the provocation given by such a man as Leonards was, when excited by drinking, might, in all probability, be more than enough to justify any one