B ut as the day of the adjourned inquest drew near Brent became aware that there were rumours in the air—rumours of some sensational development, the particulars of which were either non-obtainable or utterly vague. He heard of them from Peppermore, whose journalistic itching for news had so far gone unrelieved; Peppermore himself knew no more than that rumour was busy, and secret.

"Can't make out for the life of me what it is, Mr. Brent!" said Peppermore, calling upon Brent at the Chancellor on the eve of the inquiry. "But there's something, sir, something! You know that boy of mine—young Pryder?"

"Smart youth!" replied Brent.

"As they make 'em, sir," agreed Peppermore. "That boy, Mr. Brent, will go far in the profession of which you're a shining and I'm a dim light!—he's got what the French, I believe, sir, call a flair for news. Took to our line like a duck to water, Mr. Brent! Well, now, young Pryder's father is a policeman—sergeant in the Borough Constabulary, and naturally he's opportunities of knowing. And when he knows he talks—in the home circle, Mr. Brent."

"Been talking?" asked Brent.

"Guardedly, sir, guardedly!" replied Peppermore. "Young Pryder, he told me this afternoon that his father, when he came home to dinner to-day, said to him and his mother that when the inquest's reopened to-morrow there's be something to talk about—somebody, said Sergeant Pryder, would have something to talk of before the day was over. So—there you are!"

"I suppose old Pryder didn't tell young Pryder any more than that?" suggested Brent.

"He did not, sir," said Peppermore. "Had he done so, Jimmy Pryder would have made half a column, big type, leaded, out of it. No; nothing more. There are men in this world, Mr. Brent, as you have doubtless observed, who are given to throwing out mere hints—sort of men who always look at you as much as to say, 'Ah, I could tell a lot if I would!' I guess Sergeant Pryder's one of 'em."

"Whatever Sergeant Pryder knows he's got from Hawthwaite, of course," remarked Brent.

"To be sure, sir!" agreed Peppermore. "Hawthwaite's been up to something—I've felt that for some days. I imagine there'll be new witnesses to-morrow, but who they'll be I can't think."

Brent could not think, either, nor did he understand Hawthwaite's reserve. But he wasted no time in speculation: he had already made up his mind that unless something definite arose at the resumed inquiry he would employ professional detective assistance and get to work on lines of his own. He had already seen enough of Hathelsborough ways and Hathelsborough folk to feel convinced that if this affair of his cousin's murder could be hushed up it would be hushed up—the Simon Crood gang, he was persuaded, would move heaven and earth to smooth things over and consign the entire episode to oblivion. Against that process he meant to labour: in his opinion the stirring up of strong public interest was the line to take, and he was fully determined that if the Coroner and his twelve good men and true could not sift the problem of this inquiry to the bottom he would.

That public feeling and curiosity—mainly curiosity—were still strong enough, and were lasting well over the proverbial nine days, Brent saw as soon as he quitted the hall door of the Chancellor next morning. The open space between High Cross and the Moot Hall was packed with people, eager to enter the big court room as soon as the doors were thrown open. Conscious that he himself would get a seat whoever else did not, Brent remained standing on the steps of the hotel, lazily watching the gossiping crowd. And suddenly Mrs. Saumarez, once more attired in the semi-mourning which she had affected at the earlier proceedings, and attended by the same companion, came along the market-place in his direction. Brent went down and joined her.

"Pretty stiff crowd!" he remarked laconically. "I'm afraid you'll find it a bit of a crush this time. I suppose you'll not let that stop you, though?"

He noticed then that Mrs. Saumarez was looking anxious, perhaps a little distressed, and certainly not too well pleased. She gave him a glance which began at himself and ended at a folded paper which she carried in her well-gloved hand.

"I've got to go!" she murmured. "Got to—whether I like it or not! They've served me with a summons, as a witness. Ridiculous! What do I know about it? All that I do know is—private."

Brent stared at the bit of paper. He, too, was wondering what the Coroner wanted with Mrs. Saumarez.

"I'm afraid they haven't much respect for privacy in these affairs," he remarked. "Odd, though, that if they want you now they didn't want you at the first sitting!"

"Do you think they'll ask questions that are—private?" she suggested half-timidly.

"Can't say," replied Brent. "You'd better be prepared for anything. You know best, after all, what they can ask you. I reckon the best thing, in these affairs, is just to answer plainly, and be done with it."

"There are certain things one doesn't want raking up," she murmured. "For instance—do you think you'll have to give evidence again?"

"Maybe," said Brent.

She gave him a meaning look and lowered her voice.

"Well," she whispered, "if you have to, don't let anything come out about—about those letters. You know what I mean—the letters you got for me from his rooms? I—I don't want it to be known, in the town, that he and I corresponded as much as all that. After all, there are some things——"

Just then, and while Brent was beginning to speculate on this suddenly-revealed desire for secrecy, a movement in the crowd ahead of them showed that the doors of the Moot Hall had been thrown open; he, too, moved forward, drawing his companion with him.

"You'll not forget that?" said Mrs. Saumarez insistently. "It's—those letters, I mean—they're nothing to do with this, of course—nothing! Don't let it out that——"

"I shan't volunteer any evidence of any sort," responded Brent. "If I'm confronted with a direct question which necessitates a direct answer, that's another matter. But I don't think you've anything to worry about—I should say that what they want you for is to ask a question or two as to my cousin's movements that night, didn't he call at your house on his way to the Mayor's Parlour? Yes, why that'll be about it!"

"I hope so!" said Mrs. Saumarez, with a sigh of relief. "But—that witness-box, and before all these people—I don't like it."

"Got to be done," observed Brent. "Soon over, though. Now let's get in."

He piloted Mrs. Saumarez and her companion into the borough Court, handed over to the Coroner for the special purposes of his inquest, found them seats in a reserved part, and leaving them went over to the solicitor's table, where he took a place by the side of Tansley, already settled there with his notes and papers. Tansley gave him a significant glance, nodding his head sideways at other men near them.

"Going to be a more serious affair, this, than the first was, Brent," he whispered. "These police chaps have either got something up their sleeves or Hawthwaite's got some bee in his bonnet! Anyway, there's a barrister in the case on their behalf—that little, keen-eyed chap at the far end of the table on your left; that's Meeking, one of the sharpest criminal barristers going—and I hear they're meaning to call a lot of new witnesses. But what it's all about, I don't know."

Brent looked up and down the table at which they were sitting. There were men there—legal-looking men—whom he had not seen at the opening day's proceedings.

"Who are these other fellows?" he asked.

"Oh, well, Crood's got a man representing his interests," replied Tansley. "And there's another solicitor watching the case on behalf of the Corporation. And I rather fancy that that chap at the extreme end of the table is representing the Treasury—which may mean that this affair is going to be taken up at Head-quarters. But we know nothing till the cards are on the board! Hawthwaite looks important enough this morning to hold all the aces!"

Brent glanced at the superintendent, who was exchanging whispers with the Coroner's officer, and from him to the crowded seats that ran round three sides of the court. All the notabilities of Hathelsborough were there again, in full force: Simon Crood, in a seat of honour, as befitted his new dignity of Mayor; Mallett; Coppinger, anybody and everybody of consequence. And there, too, was Krevin Crood, and Queenie, and, just behind Mrs. Saumarez, Dr. Wellesley, looking distinctly bored, and his assistant, Dr. Carstairs, a young Scotsman, and near them another medical man, Dr. Barber; and near the witness-box were several men whom Brent knew by sight as townsmen and who were obviously expecting to be called for testimony. He turned away wondering what was to come out of all this.

Once more the Coroner, precise and formal as ever, took his seat; once more the twelve jurymen settled in their places. And while Brent was speculating on the first order of procedure he was startled by the sharp, official voice of the Coroner's officer.

"Mrs. Anita Saumarez!"

Brent heard Tansley smother an exclamation of surprise; a murmur that was not smothered ran round the crowded benches behind him. There was something dramatic in the sudden calling of the pretty young widow, whose personality was still more or less of a mystery to Hathelsborough folk, and something curiosity-raising in the mere fact that she was called. All eyes were on her as, showing traces of confusion and dislike, she made her way to the witness-box. There was delay then; Mrs. Saumarez had to be instructed to lift her veil and remove her right-hand glove; this gave the crowd abundant opportunity for observing that her usually bright complexion had paled and that she was obviously ill at ease. It was with much embarrassment and in a very low voice that she replied to the preliminary questions. Anita Saumarez. Widow of the late Captain Roderick Francis Saumarez. Has been resident at the Abbey House, Hathelsborough, for about two years. "Doesn't like this job!" whispered Tansley to Brent. "Queer! From what bit I've seen of her, I should have said she'd make a very good and self-possessed witness. But she's nervous! Old Seagrave'll have to tackle her gently."

The Coroner evidently realized this as much as Tansley did. He leaned forward confidentially from his desk, toying with his spectacles, and regarded the witness with an encouraging and paternal smile.

"Mrs. Saumarez," he began, "we want to ask you a few questions—questions your replies to which may perhaps give us a little light on this very sad matter. I believe I am right in thinking that you and the late Mr. Wallingford were personal friends?"

Mrs. Saumarez's answer came in low tones—and in one word:

"Yes."

"Very close friends, I believe?"

"Yes."

"He used to visit at your house a great deal?"

"Yes."

"Dine with you, I think, once or twice a week?"

"At one time—yes."

"You say at one time? When was that period, now?"

Mrs. Saumarez, who up to this had kept her eyes on the ledge of the witness-box, began to take courage. She lifted them towards the Coroner and, encountering his placidly benevolent gaze, let them remain there.

"Well," she replied, "from about the time he became Mayor until the time of his death."

"Regularly?"

"Yes—regularly."

"We may take it, then, that you were fond of each other's society?"

Mrs. Saumarez hesitated.

"He was a very interesting man," she said at last. "I liked to talk to him."

The Coroner bent a little nearer.

"Well, now, a more personal question," he said suavely. "You will see the importance of it. Mr. Wallingford was constantly visiting you. I want a plain answer to what I am going to ask you. Was he a suitor for your hand?"

Mrs. Saumarez's cheeks flushed, and she looked down at the ungloved hand which rested, pressed on its gloved fellow, on the ledge before her.

"He certainly asked me to marry him," she murmured.

"When was that?"

"Not—not long before his death."

"And—I'm afraid I must ask you—what was your answer?"

"I refused his offer."

"Did that make any difference to your friendship?"

"It hadn't done up to the time of his death."

"He still visited you?"

"Yes, just as often."

The Coroner remained silent for a moment, glancing at his notes. When he looked towards the witness again he was blander than ever.

"Now I shall have to ask you still more personal questions," he said. "It is, as you must be aware, Mrs. Saumarez, well known in the town that on your first coming here as a resident you became on terms of great friendship with Dr. Wellesley. Do you agree to that?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"You used to go out a great deal with Dr. Wellesley—driving, and so on?"

"Yes."

"In fact, Dr. Wellesley at that time paid you great attention?"

"Yes."

"Did those attentions cease about the time that you became so friendly with Mr. Wallingford?"

"Well, they didn't altogether cease."

"But, shall we say, fell off?"

Mrs. Saumarez hesitated, obviously disliking the question.

"I have always been friends with Dr. Wellesley," she said eventually.

"All the same, has your friendship with him been quite what it was originally, since you became so very friendly with the late Mayor?"

"Well, perhaps not."

"Will you give me a plain answer to this question? Was there any jealousy aroused between Dr. Wellesley and Mr. Wallingford because of you?"

This time Mrs. Saumarez took a long time to answer. She seemed to be thinking, reflecting. And when she replied it was only to question the Coroner:

"Am I obliged to answer that?" she asked.

"I am afraid I must press for an answer," said the Coroner, "it is important."

"I think there was jealousy," she replied in a low voice.

"On whose part?"

"Dr. Wellesley thought I had thrown him over for Mr. Wallingford."

"Had Dr. Wellesley ever asked you to marry him?"

Mrs. Saumarez's answer came with unexpected swiftness.

"Oh, yes! two or three times!"

"Had you refused him also, then?"

Mrs Saumarez paused. Her cheeks flushed a deeper red.

"The fact was—I didn't want to marry anybody—just then anyway," she answered. "They—both asked me—several times. I—if you please, will you not ask me any more about my private affairs?—they've nothing to do with this! It wasn't my fault that those two were jealous of each other, and——"

"She's let the cat out of the bag now!" whispered Tansley to Brent. "Gad! I see how this thing's going to develop! Whew! Well, there she goes!"

For the Coroner had politely motioned Mrs. Saumarez away from the box, and the next instant the official voice rapped out another name:

"Dr. Rutherford Carstairs!"