Reggie Beauchamp's mother, the widow of the late Admiral Beauchamp, R.N., lived in a small detached house prettily situated on the main road that extended from the High Street westward. A stout, comfortable-looking lady of some fifty years, she had but one aim in life—the happiness and advancement of her sailor son. Following on his two years' absence in the China seas, she was having a glorious time this eventful summer, with her boy stationed at Plymouth, and able to run over to the little Devonshire resort as frequently as he could obtain leave.

As mother and son sat together at breakfast on the morning after the picnic tea she noticed with maternal solicitude that he seemed somewhat preoccupied. The town was in a ferment over the discovery of Levison's body, and though it was not like Reggie to take anything seriously she could only suppose that he was brooding over the small part he had played in that episode.

"When does the inquiry into this horrible affair take place, dear?" she asked, as she handed him his second cup of coffee.

He started as though she had read his thoughts. "At two o'clock this afternoon, I believe," he replied. And then, knowing from experience that he could not deceive those loving eyes, he added: "I was just wondering if I should have to give evidence. I hardly expect to be called, as it was Mr. Mallory who was the first to actually find the body."

"Even if you were called it would not be much of an ordeal, I suppose—little more than a mere formality?" persisted Mrs. Beauchamp, not wholly reassured by the shade of anxiety in his answer.

"How could it be, mother, when I didn't know the chap from Adam, and was not present when he was killed," was the reply which was hardly out of the lieutenant's mouth when he sprang to his feet and made for the door. "Excuse me," he said, stifling an exclamation of relief, "there is Enid Mallory coming up the garden path. I have finished breakfast, and I'll go and see what she wants."

Mrs. Beauchamp smiled indulgently, and straightway forgot the momentary qualm of uneasiness called up by the half-tone of irritation in her son's reply to her questions about the inquest. Like the fond match-making mother she was, she had immediately jumped to the conclusion that her first diagnosis had been wrong, and that the boy's wool-gathering was really due to the sprightly maiden whose knock was even now resounding on the front door. For the Admiral's widow, with happy memories of her own gallant husband to egg her on, had woven all sorts of fairy visions round the two young people who were now meeting on her doorstep. She approved of the lively Enid, was the devoted friend of her blind mother, and had the most profound respect for Mr. Vernon Mallory himself.

"It is as it should be; they are outgrowing the old playmate stage, and are honestly falling in love with each other," the good lady murmured as she caught a glimpse through the venetians of the pair strolling side by side across the dewy little lawn.

For, with set purpose, Reggie had not invited Enid into the house, but had suggested that they should betake themselves to a garden seat under the branches of a great horse-chestnut that grew in the boundary hedge. Mrs. Beauchamp, however, would have heard no lover-like phrases could she have listened to their matter-of-fact conversation.

"Well, have you decided what it is best for us to do?" said the girl, as soon as they were seated.

"For goodness sake don't screech like that," Reggie reproved her, with an apprehensive glance at the thick privet hedge that separated his mother's premises from those next door. "That beast Lowch is probably on the prowl over there, listening for all he's worth."

"That's where you're wrong," retorted Enid promptly, but, nevertheless, lowering her voice. "As I came up the street Mr. Lowch was up to his old game—walking up and down in front of the police station so as to get spotted for the jury by the sergeant."

Mr. Lazarus Lowch, Mrs. Beauchamp's nearest neighbour, was one of those freaks of humanity intended by an all-wise Providence to be as a thorn in the flesh of his fellow-men. His one idea of enjoying life was to creep about endeavouring to catch people doing wrong. He was known to carry a stop-watch for timing the speed of motor cars; he spent hours in "shadowing" small boys whom he hoped to detect stealing apples; he followed the municipal labourers about to see that they did not scamp their work; he had a finger in every one's pie, always with the intention of spoiling it; he was never really happy, but his nearest approach to the beatific state was when he was doing his level best to make some one else miserable.

A lean, cadaverous, lantern-jawed creature, more resembling the galvanized corpse of a dyspeptic ourang-outang than a man, he stalked the earth full of petty guile and mischief. His origin and reason for settling in the place were veiled in obscurity, though naturally there were many legends on the subject. Equally of course, he was not a favourite locally, and he would have been sorry to have it so. A man whose hand is raised against everybody neither courts nor expects popularity.

One of the eccentricities of this peculiar being was a morbid love of anything pertaining to the realm of the King of Terrors. He doted on funerals, and was always present at the cemetery when these solemn functions were being performed. Though somewhat stiff in the joints, he would run a mile to see a drowned man taken out of the sea; he had been heard to lament the fact that murderers were not hanged in public nowadays, and that he was consequently deprived of a spectacle that would have been as meat and drink to a starving man.

But his great opportunity came whenever it was necessary to hold an inquest in the bright little resort. On these occasions he would thrust himself under the notice of the police with a view to getting summoned on the jury, and, as it saved trouble, his tactics were always successful. Moreover, since he occupied a superior social position to the general ruck of jurymen he was invariably chosen foreman, with the result that he reaped a double joy—that of viewing the corpse and of making himself disagreeable to every one concerned.

Reggie Beauchamp, therefore, on learning how their uncongenial neighbour was occupied emitted a chuckle of mingled disgust and amusement.

"Up to his old tricks, is he?" he said. "Well, the coast being clear, let's consider what course to pursue. If we look at it from the point of view of what we ought to do there is no question but that we ought to come forward and say that we were on the marsh that night, and that shortly after hearing a blood-curdling scream we saw Chermside in the rays of the searchlight hurrying towards the town."

Enid's face fell. There was no heinous fault in her evening walk with her old playmate, and she did not in the least mind that coming to light, but she shrank from the publicity of having to appear as a witness whose evidence would be almost in the nature of an implied accusation against a man whom she could not regard for an instant as having anything to do with the crime. She had played tennis with Leslie Chermside, and liked him; besides which she had conceived a romantic affection for beautiful Violet Maynard, and had watched the undeclared love idyll between the young Indian officer and the millionaire's daughter with lively interest.

Possibly the cloud on Enid's frank face prompted Reggie to come to a decision more than half formed already.

"But," he went on without giving her time to reply, "one doesn't in this wicked world always do what one ought, Pussy."

"I never do," rejoined the girl, omitting to pretend to resent the use of the once familiar nickname. "I don't see why we should now."

"Nor, on the whole, do I," Reggie relieved her with his assent. "You see, it might put Chermside into the deuce of a hole, since he was undoubtedly acquainted with this chap Levison. He will have to own to that, anyhow, as he called on Levison once or twice at the Plume, and the police are sure to have got hold of that. But, though there's something mysterious about him, Chermside is a gentleman. I cannot imagine him carving a little Jew all to pieces simply because of a difference of opinion. He couldn't have had any real motive for doing such a horrible thing, since they say at the club that he's simply rolling in coin. And I don't suppose Levison can have been a rival for the hand of the peerless Violet."

"That suggestion is nothing short of sacrilege, you rude, crude sailor-man!" protested Enid. "Well, we are to lie low, then, and keep a stiff upper lip?"

"That's about the ticket," Reggie agreed, rising and stretching himself. "I don't see that one is even called upon to mention that we were on the marsh and heard that scream. Come, let's clear out of this and go up to the links. A little golf will be a tonic after the gruesome parliament we have been having."

So they went together, dismissing the unpleasant subject with the facility of youth, and in happy ignorance that a pair of sunken, hungry orbs were glaring after them from a tiny flaw in the privet hedge—a spy-hole which Mr. Lazarus Lowch had specially constructed for the purpose of keeping an eye on the comings and goings of his neighbour. He had returned from achieving his purpose of being summoned on the jury in time to hear the last words spoken by Reggie. The contortion which did duty with him for a saturnine smile creased his facial muscles.

"So they heard a scream on the marsh and don't mean to say anything about it, eh? I'll see about that," he muttered, rubbing his scraggy hands in a transport of malevolent triumph.

The inquest on Levi Levison was held that afternoon in the long room at the Plume Hotel—an apartment in much request for public functions of all kinds, from Volunteer dinners to sombre occasions like the present. According to precedent Mr. Lowch was chosen foreman, and, licking his lips with anticipation, went away with his brother jurors to gloat over the corpse of the little Hebrew. On their return the coroner at once announced that an adjournment would be necessary, as it had been found impossible as yet to trace the relations, if any, of the deceased. He would, however, take such evidence as was forthcoming that day, and leave the police to complete their investigations before the next occasion.

The first witness was the landlord of the Plume, who identified the body as that of a guest who had been stopping at the hotel for a week. Mr. Levison, he avowed, had been very reticent about the reason of his coming to Ottermouth, and he seemed to know nobody except a gentleman—a visitor of the name of Chermside—who had called on him twice during the week. The deceased had spent a good deal of time out of the hotel, especially in the evenings.

Leslie Chermside was then called and sworn. In answer to the coroner, he stated that he knew very little of Levison, but that the latter had made certain business proposals to him, and had, he believed, come down to Ottermouth with the express purpose of making them. Levison came from London, but he did not know his address there.

"Have you any objection to informing the jury of the nature of the business he had with you?" asked the coroner suavely.

Leslie faced his interrogator squarely, a slight frown of intelligible annoyance contracting his brows. "I should prefer not to," he made answer. "The business was of a very private nature."

"You can, perhaps, at least state to the Court what his occupation was?"

"I believe he called himself a financial agent," was the reply.

"One more question I am bound to ask you, Mr. Chermside," pursued the coroner with a deprecatory wave of his hand: "Were you in the company of the deceased on Wednesday evening last?"

"Most certainly I was not," said Leslie firmly. "I have not spoken to or been with Levison since the morning of the previous day, when he called for me at the club, and we discussed our business during a short walk."

The word had gone round that the bronzed young soldier from India, who occupied the best-furnished apartments in the town, was very wealthy, with a steam yacht lying at Portland, and this had been communicated to the coroner by the police sergeant. Leslie was therefore politely informed that he might stand down, though it might be necessary to recall him at the adjournment.

The next witness was Mr. Mallory. In brief snappy sentences he briefly described how he had found the body in the pool on the marsh while strolling about after the picnic-tea given by the tenant of the Manor House. Mr. Mallory's manner was distinctly that of the old official, who was aware of the fact that he was a merely formal witness. If only the coroner could have penetrated the thoughts which that sphinxlike demeanour veiled he would have started his officer hot-foot to fetch certain witnesses who were not in the room, even as spectators. Travers Nugent was playing pool at the club, and Mademoiselle Louise Aubin was attending to her young mistress's wardrobe a couple of miles away at the Manor.

Then followed the doctor, who described the dead man's injuries, and in doing so cleared the ground of all doubt as to it being a case of murder. Not only had Levi Levison been slain, but he had fallen by the hand of some one who had literally "savaged" him to death. For the gash in the throat was but an item in a whole series of wounds inflicted on the hapless Jew's body. He had been stabbed three times in the back and once in the chest, any one of the wounds being in itself sufficient to kill.

Sergeant Bruce, in charge of the local force, and a singularly intelligent specimen of the provincial police officer, added his testimony, most of it being concerned with the condition of the ground. A careful examination had led him to adopt the theory that the fatal blows had been struck while the victim was on the footpath, and that the murderer had then carried the body across the swamp to the foot of the railway embankment, and had there flung it into the pool.

"That," said the coroner, "is as far as I propose to take the case to-day."

But it was not, it appeared, as far as Mr. Lazarus Lowch proposed to take it. Bobbing up from his seat like a jack-in-the-box, the foreman wagged a minatory finger at Reggie Beauchamp, whom he had singled out among the audience.

"Before we adjourn, sir, I should like to ask Mr. Beauchamp there a question. I have reason to know that he is concealing a material piece of evidence," Lowch declaimed in his husky voice, lowering at his prey.

Mr. Mallory, wedged in, alert and watchful, near the door, gazed thoughtfully across at his young friend. The lieutenant was already shouldering his way towards the witness-stand, and the old diplomatist noted not only a burning anger in the usually good-humoured boyish face, but a trace of something like consternation. The former sentiment he could understand, for it was nothing new for the methods of Lazarus Lowch to provoke wrath, but what could account for the dashing sailor's palpable nervousness?

At a nod from the coroner Reggie was sworn, and confronted the foreman with a defiant: "Well, sir, I presume that you were eavesdropping behind my mother's garden hedge this morning?"

Lowch ignored the innuendo. "Were you on the marsh late on Wednesday evening, Mr. Beauchamp?" he demanded, in the tone of a grand inquisitor.

"I was," admitted Reggie, shrugging his shoulders.

"In the company of a young lady?"

"Yes," with a scowl for the friendly titter that ran round the room.

"As a gentleman, I abstain from pressing for the lady's name, though doubtless it can be guessed by many in this assemblage," proceeded Lowch pompously. "Let me ask if you and your companion heard a scream on the marsh that night?"

"I am glad you labour the point of your being a gentleman," said Reggie sweetly. "Yes, we heard some kind of a cry. I thought it was a sea-bird, or possibly a snared rabbit."

"Then why did you not come forward when you knew that a murder had been committed and inform the police of what you had heard?" came the supplementary query.

Mr. Mallory's wise old head was cocked a little on one side to catch the answer. From his attitude he seemed to set considerable store by it.

"Because," said Reggie slowly, "I didn't think that the cry necessarily had anything to do with the case. I know from experience that there are all sorts of queer noises on the marsh after dark—hooting owls, barking foxes, and a hundred things."

Lazarus Lowch subsided suddenly into his seat with an air of great achievement, and Reggie, perceiving that he had exhausted his capacity for making himself disagreeable, turned with an engaging smile to the coroner. "I hope I have done nothing serious, sir," he said cheerily. "This person seems to accuse me of some terrible misdemeanour, but you will understand that unless one's evidence is really vital to the issue one doesn't want to be needlessly dragged into these little turn-ups."

The coroner, a good fellow with a taste for saltwater "breeziness," smiled in friendly fashion, and promptly adjourned the Court.

But Mr. Vernon Mallory was not so easily satisfied. "The boy is concealing something," he muttered as he allowed himself to be carried with the human stream out into the sunlight.