Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

The judge looked up quickly and the spectators exchanged glances. It certainly struck them as a most damaging question for the defense to ask. Only Everest seemed entirely unconcerned at the little murmur of surprise that went round.

“I didn’t,” answered the butler.

“Never have seen or handled those notes?”

“I have not!”

The witness was getting a little uneasy now and not a few of the spectators noticed it and commented on it among themselves. Martin Everest, however, was as smooth and bland as could be.

“I am going to have a revolver handed to you,” he said; “I want you to tell us whether it’s yours or not.”

“I’ve already told you I haven’t got one,” retorted the witness.

“Don’t get angry,” murmured Everest smoothly. “Just look at it and answer my question.”

The butler took the revolver sullenly, looked at it.

“I’ve never seen it in my life.”

“Swear it?”

“Yes — I do.”

Silence for a moment. Then Everest spoke again, addressing the judge.

“My lord, I have no more questions to ask this witness, but in view of certain evidence I intend to call I am going to ask your lordship to order him to remain in court.”

When the prisoner went into the witness box excitement ran high. But it faded away to amazement as he gave his evidence. To one and all it seemed that Martin Everest by his questions and the prisoner by his admissions were deliberately playing into the hands of the prosecution.

For Pendlebury not only admitted to the letter and the visit to Wollstein’s house at nine thirty on the night of the murder, but he admitted having paid him six hundred pounds in notes and receiving a packet of letters in exchange. And though he gave the numbers of the notes he declined to say how he got them. So when he finally left the witness box there was hardly any one in that court who would not have said that he was a doomed man.

Yet when Martin Everest rose again he seemed entirely at ease and utterly unruffled.

V

“Miss Daphne Wrayne!” he said.

Guy Templeton, junior counsel for the defense, turned to a colleague with a grin.

“I told you we’d startle you in a minute,” he said sotto voce.

“Gad, you have!” whispered the other. “What have you got up your sleeve?”

“You wait and see, my lad!”

Certainly this was the sensation. As Daphne made her way to the witness box the court was buzzing with excitement. Even the judge was interested.

“You, I believe, are the secretary of a concern called the Adjusters, Miss Wrayne?”

“I am!”

The judge looked up with a bland smile.

“I suppose I ought to conform to tradition and say ‘Who are the Adjusters’?”

“That, my lord,” answered Everest, “is a question quite a lot of us would like to have answered.”

A little ripple of laughter ran over the court.

“Perhaps Miss Wrayne is here to tell us,” murmured the judge.

“Surely it wouldn’t be evidence, my lord?” queried Daphne innocently and another murmur of laughter ran round.

“Not unless you intend to produce the Adjusters, Miss Wrayne?”

“Can’t be done!” answered the girl and once again laughter rang out. But it died away in a moment, for the spectators guessed that something in the way of a sensation was coming. Martin Everest went on.

“Miss Wrayne, have you visited the house of the deceased since the murder took place?”

“I have.”

“When?”

“The day before yesterday.”

“May I ask why, Miss Wrayne?” put in the judge.

“Chiefly curiosity, my lord,” with a smile.

“Not in any official capacity then?”

“Oh dear no!”

Every one in the whole of that crowded court was watching her now with breathless interest. Her beauty, her perfect self-composure and the readiness with which she gave her answers; but above all the clear candor of her brown eyes had enlisted the sympathy of judge, jury and spectators in a moment. They saw a girl out of the ordinary, a girl with a quick alert brain and a keen sense of humor.

“Did you go alone, Miss Wrayne?” was Everest’s next question.

“No! I went with Detective Inspector Montarthar of Scotland Yard.”

Martin Everest turned to the judge.

“With your lordship’s permission I will ask your lordship to let the witness tell her own story. I may say that I propose afterward to call Inspector Montarthar and the Chief Commissioner of Police who will confirm it.”

“Very well, Mr. Everest.” The judge turned to Daphne. “Please tell the court what happened, Miss Wrayne.”

And in the breathless silence of that packed court, with every eye riveted on her, she told them — told them quite simply, without any attempt at effect, though with a little heightened color in her cheeks at that sea of eyes riveted upon her. And then when she had described the picture in the library in detail: