CHAPTER XIV. "CROWNER'S QUEST."

Hetty was conscious of a sea of curious eyes and white, eager faces. As the days went on public interest in the corner house mystery had not abated. All sorts of vague stories had got about, and in some mysterious way the name of Dr. Gordon Bruce was mixed up in it.

Why he had not been arrested Bruce could not imagine. The tale he had volunteered to Prout and his signature on the back of the notes were almost in themselves enough to hang a man. Perhaps a little private conversation between Prout and Lawrence had had the effect of postponing matters. Bruce was not in the least likely to run away; on the contrary, he had volunteered to give evidence at the adjourned inquest. Hetty also would have something to say that would be in favour of her lover.

"After all, they can't definitely say that those notes were ever in the possession of the murdered man," she whispered to Bruce. "He wrote the letter, of course, but they don't know he really possessed the notes."

"I am afraid they do," Bruce replied. "They are going to call a cashier from the National Credit Bank who positively identified the deceased as the man who changed ￡400 in gold for notes, part of which notes were numbers 190753 to 190792, or the notes I paid to Capper. That piece of evidence cannot possibly be shaken."

Hetty admitted the fact with a sigh. She had no illusions as to the future. Unless something like a miracle happened Gordon was certain to stand in the dock charged with the murder of a man unknown. Examined in the cold light of day, Gordon Bruce's story was an extraordinary one. Hetty was forced to admit that from the lips of a stranger she would not have believed a word of it.

And Gilbert Lawrence now refused to say anything. He was the one person who seemed to be thoroughly satisfied. There was some comfort to be derived from this, but not much, as Hetty told herself miserably.

The inquest was sensational from the very start. After the dead man's landlady of the house by the docks and her landlord's agent proved the handwriting of the deceased, Sergeant Prout told the story of the missing banknotes. A good few of the packed audience knew Bruce by sight, and as the evidence proceeded he found the scrutiny of so many eyes quite trying.

Even the most guilty when brought to book are not without some feeling of shame, however defiant they may appear, but it is a horrible thing when the innocent has to stand and answer to a criminal charge. A wave of indignation passed over Bruce, to be followed by utter helplessness.

"Courage, dear old boy," Hetty whispered. "It will all come right in the end. Good will come out of this evil."

Bruce shut his teeth tightly and nodded. Still, in Prout's evidence he seemed to hear the voice of his judge passing sentence.

Prout concluded his evidence at length, every word of which told dead against the one man seated there. Not half a dozen people in the room would have acquitted him on the criminal charge.

"Do you propose to go any further today?" the coroner asked.

Prout was understood to say no, when Bruce rose. His face was deadly pale, a tiny red spot burning on either cheek. But he had his voice under proper control; there was no look of guilt about him.

"If you have no objection, sir, I should like to give evidence," he said.

The presiding official was decidedly taken aback. He looked at Prout, who made no sign. He was not so prejudiced as most of the people there.

"Really if you will be guided by my opinion you will do nothing of the kind," he said, much as a magistrate might address a prisoner in the dock. "If you were called it would be a different matter. On the whole the best plan would be for you to be represented by a solicitor, who would put questions likely to--er--tell in your favour."

Bruce smiled grimly. He knew perfectly well what a terrible significance lay behind these formal words. At the same time, he had no desire to take any advantage. There was an electric thrill in the audience as he was sworn. They thrilled with a deeper intensity as he proceeded. If ever a man stood up and committed moral and social suicide Dr. Gordon Bruce was that man at this moment.

There was scarcely a sound to be heard till he had finished. People thrust forward, eager that no word should be missed. A sudden sneeze caused the whole court to start violently. It was a strange weird story, that only one listener believed in, and that was Hetty.

The coroner had nothing to say. The thing was bad enough, and he did not wish to be too hard on a medical colleague. A curious juryman had a lot of questions to ask, especially about the mysterious Spanish woman and the motor car.

"You left that lady behind you?" he said. "Who is to testify to that? If you can prove such to be the case, why----"

The curious one shrugged his shoulders. Then a loud clear voice rang to the roof, the voice of a woman who declared that she could prove it. A ripple of amazement followed. Before it died away Hetty became conscious of the fact that the voice was hers, and that she had spoken.

In a dreary kind of way she found herself answering questions. Somebody had placed a book in her hands and had told her to kiss it.

"I live next door to the corner house," she said. "I could not sleep on the night in question. At a little before five----"

"How do you fix the time?" came from the inquisitive juryman,

"Because my bedroom clock struck the hour as I got back. I heard somebody leave the corner house. I looked out of the window and saw a motor car that appeared to be draped in black. As a woman from the house got on to it she seemed to push some of the drapery aside, for I saw the gleam of the rail. She was a fair woman with a mantilla over her head. The car went off without the faintest noise, and that is all I know."

"Are you a friend of the prison----, I mean of Dr. Bruce?" asked the inquisitive one.

Hetty was bound to admit that she was more than that. The interrogative juryman sniffed and suggested that Dr. Bruce might have been in the house then.

"Impossible," Bruce cried. "At a quarter to five I was at home. The hall porter and two of the maids were down and will testify to the fact."

A ripple of excitement followed. A reporter rose and held up his hand.

"I desire to be sworn, sir," he said. "It so happens that I can throw a little light on this matter. I did not leave the office of my paper till four in the morning of the day to which this young lady alludes. The clock on Gregory's store struck five as I reached Garrett Street, which, as you know, runs into Raven Street. A few seconds later a fast motor passed me without the slightest noise."

"Perhaps you had better describe this motor," said the coroner.

"It was draped or some way disguised in black. A woman sat by the driver, with a cloud of lace over her head. I could just catch a glimpse of a brass rail where the drapery was disturbed."

Prout snapped his note-book together and put it in his pocket.

"After that," he muttered, "I give it up; it's beyond me."