CHAPTER IX. THE CONFIDENTIAL AGENT.

All that evening and most of the next day Walter brooded over his startling discovery. He said nothing to anybody about it, though he had attempted the night previously to follow up the clue. The attempt had failed, however, for though Walter had waited outside the theatre, he saw no more of Mrs. Delahay. And as to the man Valdo he eventually went off by himself. There was nothing for it now but to wait and see what was going to happen.

Meanwhile, public interest in the Fitzjohn Square tragedy had not abated in the least. Everybody was waiting eagerly enough for the inquest, which was to open at four o'clock on the day following the mysterious attack upon Lord Ravenspur. The latter had come down somewhat late in the morning, looking but little the worse for his adventure. It was not expected that the inquest would be more than formally opened, and it was generally known that Lord Ravenspur would be an important witness.

In view of the extraordinary interest taken in the affair the proceedings had been moved to a public hall. Long before the time arranged for opening the inquiry the hall was packed to its utmost capacity. After the police and medical evidence had been taken, the first witness called was Lord Ravenspur. His fine, picturesque figure stood out in the strong light. He gave his evidence clearly and well, though his voice shook from time to time with emotion, which was only natural enough, seeing that the dead man had been so close a friend of his.

After all, he had little to tell. He described his late visit to Fitzjohn Square, and how he had been at work on a picture there until such time as the lights were extinguished and he was forced to abandon his task.

"You thought nothing of the lights going out?" the coroner asked. "You saw nothing suspicious in that?"

"Well, no," the witness replied. "You see, it is no unusual occurrence for the supply of electric light to fail. The thing so easily happens. As the house has been empty for some time it occurred to me that perhaps there was a fault somewhere, or, perhaps, the workmen had not quite finished their job."

"Quite so," the coroner observed. "Tell us, did you hear any noise in the house, or any suspicious sounds?"

"Nothing whatever. Until the light went out there was nothing whatever to disturb me. In fact, I was so intent upon my work that I was quite lost to everything else."

"But you know now," the coroner went on, "that the main cable leading to the meter was cut. That being so, somebody must have been in the house at the same time as yourself. What I want to get at is this--the murderer was deliberately waiting for his victim. He had no quarrel with you, and his great idea was to get you out of the way. That appears to be obvious."

"It is obvious enough to me," Ravenspur replied. "I came to that conclusion directly Inspector Dallas pointed out to me that the main cable had been deliberately cut. But you see I suspected nothing wrong at the time, and there was nothing else for me to do but to abandon my task directly the light went out. I am afraid that I can tell you nothing more."

"The deceased was a great friend of yours?" the coroner asked. "I presume you know a great deal about his life and habits. Was he at all the sort of man to make enemies?"

"The last man in the world," the witness said emphatically. "My friend Was both upright and straightforward. Indeed, I regarded him as a man incapable of a mean action."

One or two desultory questions followed, and then Lord Ravenspur sat down. To a certain extent his evidence had been dramatic enough, but, at the same time, he had not said a single word likely to throw any light on the mystery. The audience thrilled and bent forward eagerly as Mrs. Delahay stood up to give her evidence. She was just as deadly pale, just as calm and set, as she had been when she called upon Ravenspur in Park Lane with the dreadful news. She gave her evidence slowly and distinctly, speaking more like an automaton than a creature of flesh and blood. She told how she had become alarmed at her husband's prolonged absence, how she had gone down to Fitzjohn Square to see if anything had happened, how she found the dead body there, and how the police had come to her assistance. But more than that she could not say, more than that she did Dot know. So far as she knew her husband had always been a cheerful man. She had never heard him say an evil word of any one. She had not been married long, in fact she was still a bride. Altogether she had known her husband for a little over three years. She was older than her husband, she proceeded to say. The coroner asked her age.

"I am forty-three," she said calmly.

"Really," the coroner murmured politely, "I should not have taken you to be so much. I don't wish to ask you anything likely to cause you pain, but does it not occur to you that your husband might have been concealing something? Is it not rather strange that he should leave you at midnight and take an hour and a half in reaching a house to which he might have walked in ten minutes?"

"I don't think so," Mrs. Delahay said. "My husband was one of the most open of men. In fact, he was too fond of leaving his letters and private papers about. And as to the rest, he might have met a friend. He might have gone to one of his clubs."

"If I may be allowed to interrupt a moment," Inspector Dallas said, "I may say that we have utterly failed to trace Mr. Delahay's movements from the time he left the Grand Hotel till he reached Fitzjohn Square. Not one of his friends appears to have seen him on the night in question."

"That is rather unfortunate," the coroner murmured. "I am sorry to have troubled you so far. You may sit down now."

With something which might have been a sigh of relief Mrs. Delahay resumed her seat close to the table. Then Inspector Dallas put forward a witness who gave the name of John Stevens. He looked like a broken-down professional man in his greasy, shabby frock-coat and dingy linen. His watery eye glanced nervously over the court. The red tinge on his cheeks spoke quite plainly of the cause of his downfall. He proceeded to give his evidence so incoherently that the coroner had to reprimand him sharply once or twice.

"I can't hear half you say," that official said irritably. "I think you said your name was John Stevens. What can you tell us about this case? Did you know Mr. Delahay?"

"I knew him quite well, sir," the witness said. "I have seen him scores of times when I have been watching in Fitzjohn Square."

"What do you mean by watching there?"

"Well, sir, you see, I am a private inquiry agent. I work for one of the large firms of detectives, getting up evidence and that kind of thing. For months past it has been my duty to keep my eye on a certain house in the Square, especially at night. In that way I have got to know most of the inhabitants by sight, and also I have got to know a good deal about their habits."

"You are a professional spy, then?" the coroner asked.

"Well, sir, if you like to put it like that," the witness said humbly. "On the night of the murder about a quarter past one, I was in the Square gardens watching through the railings at the corner of John Street. I could see perfectly well what was going on because there is a large electric arc light where John Street and the Square adjoin. As I said, it was just about a quarter past one, because I looked at my watch to see what the time was. It was nearly time for me to leave, as my instructions----"

The witness broke off abruptly, and glanced about the room with the air of a man who has recognised an acquaintance whom he had not expected to see. His rambling attentions were recalled by the coroner in a few sharp words.

"I am sure I beg your pardon. As I said, I was waiting there till my time was up, and I saw Mr. Delahay come round the corner. He stood there just a moment. As far as I could gather he seemed to be troubled about something. I was too far off to hear what he was saying, but it seemed to me----"

"What are you talking about?" the coroner interrupted. "Do you mean to say that Mr. Delahay was talking to himself?"

"Oh, dear no, sir; he was talking to his companion."

"Companion! That is the first we have heard of that. Was the companion a man or a woman, might I ask?"

"It was a lady, sir. She was a tall woman dressed in black. They stood opposite me for five or six minutes talking very earnestly together. Then Mr. Delahay turned away from the woman and went into the house. The woman seemed to hesitate a few moments, then she followed, and I saw her go into the house after Mr. Delahay. But she will be able to tell you all about it herself."

"I don't understand you," the coroner said, with a puzzled frown. "How can the woman tell us all about it herself? You don't mean to say that she is in court?"

The witness slowly turned and pointed a dingy forefinger in the direction of Maria Delahay.

"That's the lady, sir," he said. "That's the lady that I saw with Mr. Delahay the night before last."

"But that is absolutely impossible," the coroner cried. "Don't you know that that lady is Mr. Delahay's wife?"