The police court at Exeter was situated in an old building, and the Magistrate's room was small and cold. When I was led forth and placed in the dock, I felt at first confused and gazed at the crowded benches before me with a dull sense of annoyance. Presently I made out the troubled, white face of Major Temple, sitting near the rear of the room, and behind him Gibson and two of the other servants. The remainder of the persons in the room were strangers to me, drawn thither, no doubt, by the merest curiosity. I looked up at the Magistrate and found him to be a little, red-faced man, with a stern, but not unkind, face—a man, evidently, who had seen so much of human guilt and suffering that the edge of his sympathies had been worn off and replaced with a patient cynicism. The usual questions as to my name, age, residence and occupation were asked, and then the real business of the hearing began. The finding of the coroner's inquest was first read, and then Major Temple was placed upon the witness stand. The old gentleman looked more shrunken and old than ever. His face was yellow, his eyes hollow and heavy from want of sleep, his hands trembling with excitement. I could well understand his agitation. His daughter, even now under arrest, was hurrying to Exeter to undergo that most terrible of all ordeals, a hearing on a charge of murder. Whether or not her story would end in a confession, no one knew; that she had something of the greatest import to tell, her letter indicated. All these thoughts must have crowded through her poor father's mind as he took his seat and made oath to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. The Magistrate began his examination with characteristic incisiveness.

"Major Temple," he said, "you are here as a witness in the case of Mr. Owen Morgan, charged with complicity in the murder of Robert Ashton."

The Major bowed, but remained silent.

"When did you first meet Mr. Morgan?"

"The night he first came to my house, five days ago."

"Never saw him before?"

"Never. Mr. Ashton offered him a place in his motor, on his way to my house. On account of the storm, he stopped there and remained over night."

"It is supposed that this murder had as a motive the securing of a valuable emerald in Mr. Ashton's possession. When Mr. Ashton first exhibited it to you, was Mr. Morgan present?"

"He was."

"Did he know the value of the jewel?"

"I do not know. I think the matter was mentioned at the table."

"You had agreed to give your daughter's hand in marriage to Mr. Ashton, in return for obtaining for you this jewel. Is that true?"

"Yes," the Major faltered.

"Was your daughter opposed to this arrangement?"

"She was."

"And you insisted upon it?"

"I had given my word as a gentleman."

"The securing of the jewel, then, from Mr. Ashton would have released her from the arrangement?"

"If Mr. Ashton had not had it, he could not have carried out his agreement, of course."

"At what time did you retire on the night of the murder?"

"Shortly before midnight."

"After Mr. Ashton?"

"Yes—I saw him to his room."

"After that you retired at once?"

"Yes."

"Did you wake during the night?"

"Not until I was aroused by Mr. Morgan's cries—about daybreak, or a little before."

"Was it light?"

"Hardly—it was just before sunrise."

"You did not leave your room, from the time you retired, until you heard Mr. Morgan's cries?"

"No."

"What did you do then?"

"I threw on some clothing and ran along the hall into the west wing. I sleep at the other end of the house in the east wing. When I arrived at Mr. Ashton's door, Mr. Morgan was trying to open it. My man, Gibson, who also heard the cries, came along, followed by one of the maids."

"Did your daughter join you?"

"Yes, almost immediately."

"How was she dressed?"

"She wore a dressing gown and slippers."

"You heard no other cries but Mr. Morgan's?"

"No."

"What happened then?"

"Mr. Morgan and Gibson broke open the door, which was bolted. The maid brought a candle. I ordered my daughter to retire. Mr. Morgan and I entered the room with the candle and closed the door. We found Mr. Ashton on the floor dead."

"What did you do?"

"I began to search for the emerald Buddha."

"What did Mr. Morgan do?"

"He first examined the body of the dead man, and then went to the windows and examined the fastenings."

"Did he close or open the windows or fastenings?"

"I do not know. I paid little attention to him. I was greatly excited about the loss of the jewel."

"Could he have fastened the window without your knowing it?"

"I suppose he could—I paid little attention to him."

"What happened then?"

"After our examination of the room we closed and locked the door. We then had some coffee, after which Mr. Morgan went into Exeter and notified the police."

"Major Temple, there is a window at the end of the hallway in the west wing, which opens on to the roof over the porch. Is this window usually bolted?"

"Always. I generally see to it myself. I have a valuable collection and am afraid of thieves."

"Did you do so that night?"

"I did. I saw that it was bolted after seeing Mr. Ashton to his room and before retiring to my own."

This comprised the bulk of Major Temple's testimony. There were some other questions, but they were of little or no importance so far as throwing any light upon the case was concerned.

Major Temple was followed by Gibson, who corroborated all that his master had said, and similar testimony was given by the maid. There was a feature of the latter's testimony, however, which bore more directly upon the case and my supposed connection with it. She had been, it seems, on the landing of the main stairway, sitting upon a window seat, after dinner, waiting for Miss Temple to come upstairs. It was her habit to sit there, she said, while waiting for Miss Temple. In this position she was almost directly above the latter and myself during the conversation we had had immediately after dinner on the night of the tragedy. She testified that she could not hear all our conversation—that she made no attempt to do so, as she was not an eavesdropper—but that she had heard Miss Temple say in a loud and agitated voice that she would "never marry Robert Ashton, never," and ask me to help her, and that I had replied that she could depend upon me absolutely. Immediately after this her mistress had come upstairs and gone to her room.

"Did you accompany her to her room?" asked the Magistrate.

"No, sir. She told me as how she intended to read until quite late, Sir, and that I could go to bed at once, as she would not require my assistance."

"Was this unusual?"

"It was, a bit, Sir. I 'most always helped her to undress, Sir."

"And you went to your room at once?"

"Yes, Sir. I did, Sir, and to sleep, Sir."

"How were you awakened?"

"I heard someone crying 'Help! Help!' I threw on some clothes as quick as I could, Sir, and ran out into the hall. Then I seen the Master run into the hallway of the west wing, and Gibson after him, and I follows them. After that, Sir, I went for a candle."

The testimony of the other servants was similar to that of Gibson and the maid. They had heard someone crying for help, and had rushed into the hall.

Sergeant McQuade's testimony was in some ways the most interesting of all. I began to see that this astute gentleman had by no means been as frank with me as I had been with him, and had made a number of little discoveries of which I had no knowledge up to now. He testified to finding Miss Temple's handkerchief in Mr. Ashton's room on the morning of the murder. He testified to finding the window at the end of the hallway unbolted. He produced photographs and measurements of the bloody handprint found upon Mr. Ashton's window sill and compared them with measurements made of my own hands earlier in the day. It appeared that, while the handprint was small, it could readily have been made by my hand, which, like that of most artists, is rather below medium size. He testified that he found similar marks of blood upon the window sill of the hall window, pointing inward, also scratches in the paint evidently made by someone climbing through the window from without. He testified to finding footprints upon the porch roof, made by someone either wearing soft slippers or in their stocking feet. These prints were made in the thin wet mold which covered the surface of the roof. He found traces of this mold on the white window sill of the hall window, and traced prints of it upon the polished floor of the hallway, from the window as far as the doorway of my room. He could not find any prints of this nature within my room, nor could he say that the person making them did not go beyond my room, but only that the footprints could not be traced beyond my door. The walking of many feet in the hallway between Mr. Ashton's door and mine had obliterated the marks and prevented his tracing them beyond that point, if they had indeed gone beyond it. They were small footprints, and somewhat indistinct, yet showing clearly as faint, dull patches upon the polished floor. They were clearly a man's footprints, although smaller than the average man's foot. Measurements which he had made of footprints which I had made in the gravel paths upon the morning of the tragedy proved conclusively that these foot marks in the hall could readily have been made by me. He exhibited drawings, photographs and measurements as he gave his testimony. I sat in the dock, amazed, wondering if by any chance I had suddenly developed somnambulistic tendencies and had performed these various acts while walking in my sleep. I felt that both the Magistrate and the crowd in the court-room were already coming to regard me as an extremely dangerous character.

The Sergeant's testimony was extremely thorough and exact. He showed conclusively that no one had descended from the porch roof to the ground either by the vines, or by the lightning rod which I had foolishly supposed he had not observed, the day we made our first investigation. He spoke of the woman's footprints in the gravel path, from the corner of the porch to the main entrance. He then took up our trip to London, put in evidence the letter he had received, supposedly from me, summoning him to meet me at the house in Kingsgate street, explaining that the Chinamen had no doubt been uncertain whether I had the stone or had turned it over to him, and to avoid taking chances had decoyed us both. He referred to my offers of assistance in unraveling the case, and my failure to mention to him my suspicions regarding the Oriental perfume, or my taking of the cake of soap from the green room. He described Li Min's attempt to steal my satchel, and my facetious remark that possibly the Chinaman thought I had the emerald in my bag, which was indeed the case. Finally he spoke of the finding of the emerald in the cake of soap in my satchel and the weapon in the drawer of the dresser in my room, by his assistants, and the latter was produced and placed along with the other exhibits in the case. When McQuade had got through it was perfectly clear to the court that someone within the house had left the telltale marks on the roof and window sills and it seemed pretty conclusively shown that that someone was myself. I arose to be examined with a sinking heart. I knew that before now, in the history of criminal trials, many an innocent man had gone protesting to the gallows, and already I felt sure that, unless Miss Temple's testimony was decidedly convincing, I was certain of being held for trial as either an accomplice or the principal in Robert Ashton's murder.

My own examination was short. I told my story as the reader already knows it, and I told it without any hitch or hesitation. If my reasons for taking the cake of soap from Ashton's room seemed weak, I could only inform the magistrate that they were nevertheless the ones which had actuated me. If my failure to speak of the matter to McQuade seemed suspicious, I could only say in reply that I had not thought it of sufficient importance to mention to him. I testified that I had last seen Miss Temple, on that fatal night, when she bade me good-night in the lower hall, and that I did not see her again until the next morning when she came into the hall in answer to my cries. I described minutely the manner in which I was awakened by the short, sharp cry of the murdered man, and the sound of his heavy fall, and fixed the time as not later than half-past five, as I had looked at my watch, mechanically, while hurriedly throwing on my clothes. I felt that I had made a favorable impression, but I realized that the stern facts brought out by McQuade would need more than a favorable impression to overcome them. At the conclusion of my testimony I requested that the Chinaman, Li Min, be called to corroborate me as to the removal of the cake of soap from the green room. The Chinaman was already in the witness room, but, when brought into court, maintained a stolid silence, and even the most strenuous efforts of an interpreter failed to elicit from him a single syllable. It was at this point that the court adjourned for luncheon, after which the examination was to be resumed, with the hearing of Miss Temple's testimony.

As may well be imagined, I had no desire for food. Nor were my concern and inward fear of the afternoon's proceedings a result of any fear that I may have had upon my own account. I realized fully that the testimony of the morning had been heavily against me, but I would have gladly endured that and much more, could I have spared Muriel the coming ordeal. The thought that she might be coming to Exeter to confess, and thus free me from all suspicion, distressed rather than cheered me. That she had evidence of importance to put before the court I well knew. Yet whom could it possibly involve but herself? The Chinaman, Li Min, she could have no possible motive, I felt, for screening, and the only other person for whom she could possibly have such a feeling, her father, had been in no way connected with the crime, and clearly could not have committed it. The more I thought, the more I realized that logic pointed its cold and inexorable fingers at her; yet the more strongly did the love I felt for her tell me the impossibility of such a conclusion. I cannot express the tenderness, the love, with which this girl, in our few brief meetings, had inspired me. I longed to take her into my arms and comfort her, and tell her that the whole thing was but a wretched, miserable dream. Yet it needed but a glance at the stone walls about me, the steel grating of my door, and the untasted food which stood upon the cot at my side, to assure me that this was indeed no dream, but a very cold and stern reality. It was close on to two o'clock when I was once more taken back to the court-room, and, as I entered, I glanced about with an eager and expectant look, hoping to see Miss Temple. She was nowhere to be seen. I took my seat and waited patiently, watching the court attendants as they performed their routine duties, or the Magistrate, deep in the business of reading and signing a number of papers—warrants, I presumed, for other unfortunates—which were handed to him by a clerk. Major Temple sat in his former seat, so pale and still that I felt he had not left it since the morning, yet I knew he must have done so, if only to catch a glimpse of his daughter as she arrived in the custody of the officers. Presently there was a stir in the room, the Magistrate left off signing his papers, and, as I turned toward the door leading from the witness room, I saw Muriel entering, with Sergeant McQuade at her side, and Inspector Burns following them. My heart sank, as I saw how terribly pale and distressed she looked and with what shrinking she met the gaze of the many eyes now focused upon her. Her own sought the face of her father. He half-rose, as though to speak, then sank back into his seat and covered his eyes with his hand. She did not see me at all—probably because I was so close to her.

The Magistrate rapped upon the desk to still the rising buzz of conversation among the spectators, then, turning to the witness, for whom McQuade had placed a chair, began his interrogations. After she had taken the oath, and answered the usual formal questions as to her name, age, etc., he began.

"Miss Temple, you have been arrested in connection with the murder of one Robert Ashton, which occurred at your father's house on the morning of Tuesday last. The object of this hearing is to fix the responsibility for that crime, so far as we can, pending a trial by jury. Tell the Court, if you please, where you first met the deceased."

"In Hong Kong," replied Miss Temple, in a scarcely audible voice.

"Speak a little louder, please. When was this?"

"Last year—in October."

"He addressed you at that time, did he not, upon the subject of marriage?"

"He did, several times."

"What was your reply?"

"I refused his advances."

"Why?"

"I did not care for him, in fact, I disliked him."

"You had a strong aversion to him?"

"I had. He seemed to me cruel and unscrupulous."

"Did your father know of this feeling on your part?"

"No. I did not say anything to him about it. He evidently liked Mr. Ashton, probably because of their common interest in Oriental art. I had no wish to prejudice him."

"When did you first learn that your father had consented to your marriage with Mr. Ashton?"

"Shortly after our return to England. He told me that Mr. Ashton had asked for my hand in marriage, and offered to secure the emerald Buddha for him as an evidence of his love and sincerity. My father, supposing that I would have no objections, foolishly consented to the arrangement."

"But you objected?"

"Violently at first. Later on, when I saw how deeply my father felt about the matter, and when he told me he had given Mr. Ashton his word of honor, and that the latter had set out upon a life-and-death quest as a result of it, I gave an unwilling consent and agreed to write to Mr. Ashton at Pekin, withdrawing my objections to his suit."

"You wrote this letter?"

"I did."

"When did you first learn that Mr. Ashton had succeeded in his quest?"

"At dinner, the night of his arrival. I had not been alone with him, since he came but a short time before the dinner hour. He suddenly rolled the emerald out upon the tablecloth, and looked at me with a glance of triumph."

"After dinner you had some conversation with Mr. Morgan. What was it?"

"I told Mr. Morgan my story. He was a stranger to me, but I knew his name and his work, and I had no one upon whom I could rely. I told him I would never marry Mr. Ashton, that rather than do so I would leave the house, and earn my own living. I asked him to help me in any way that he could."

"And he agreed?"

"Yes."

"What did you do then?"

"I retired to my room, dismissed my maid, and threw myself fully dressed upon the bed."

"What time was it?"

"Close to ten o'clock. I heard the hall clock strike the hour shortly after I reached my room."

"Did you go to sleep?"

"No. I thought and thought about the terrible situation I was in. I did not want to leave home. I am very fond of my father—he is all I have in the world. Yet I could not make him listen to reason, in regard to this marriage. He was mad to possess this miserable jewel. At last I heard my father and Mr. Ashton come up stairs, and, shortly after, heard my father retire to his own room. I made up my mind to make a last appeal to Mr. Ashton, to tell him under no circumstances to deliver the jewel to my father under the impression that I would marry him, that I would refuse to do so. I wanted also to ask him to give me back my letter and to release me from my unwilling promise. I sprang from the bed, ran out into the hall, and, without thinking of the consequences, went at once to the door of Mr. Ashton's room and knocked. He opened it at once, and, fearing lest I might be seen or heard, by someone if I remained standing in the hall, I entered. Mr. Ashton had evidently been examining the emerald, as I saw it standing upon a table. He had a pen in his hand, and was making a copy of the curious symbol engraved on the base of the image, upon a small piece of paper. He received me with protestations of joy and evidently thought that I had come to him as his accepted wife, but I soon undeceived him, and, after stating my case in a few words, demanded the return of my letter. He was very angry, and at first refused to believe that I was in earnest. He soon saw that I was, however, and became very brutal and refused to release me. He even went so far as to attempt to embrace me, and only by threatening to rouse the house with my screams did I succeed in making him desist. I warned him that I was in absolute earnest, that under no circumstances would I marry him, and then, seeing that nothing further was to be gained, I hurriedly left the room."

"Did you drop your handkerchief?"

"I must have done so. The one found in the room belonged to me."

"Did you by any chance observe whether or not any of the windows in the room were open?"

"I did. They were all closed. I noticed it instinctively, because, when I first entered the room, I was conscious of the heavy, oppressive atmosphere of the place and, knowing that the room had been long closed, wondered that Mr. Ashton had not opened the windows. I suppose it was because his long stay in the East had rendered him sensitive to our cold English weather."

"After you left Mr. Ashton's room, what did you do?"

"I retired to my own room, partially undressed, and again threw myself upon the bed."

"Did you sleep?"

"No. I could not."

"When did you again leave your room?"

"About five o'clock. I had been thinking all night about leaving the house. I felt that, after the scene the night before with Mr. Ashton, I could not endure another meeting with him. I got up, put on a walking suit and boots, and, throwing a few things into a satchel, stole quietly down stairs, opened the front door and went out."

"Where did you go?"

"I—I left the porch, and set out across the lawns, taking a short cut to the main road to the town."

I observed that Miss Temple was showing a greater and greater appearance of distress as the magistrate pursued inexorably the line of questioning that would led her to the disclosures which I knew she feared to make. Her face, white and drawn, twitched pathetically under the stress of her emotions. She spoke in a low, penetrating voice, little more than a whisper, yet so silent was the court-room that what she said was audible to its furthermost corner. As I gazed at her in silent pity, I heard the Magistrate ask the next question.

"How far did you go?"

"I went—I—I think it must have been about thirty yards—as far as the corner of the house."

"The corner of the west wing?"

"Yes." Her voice was growing more and more faint.

"Why did you not go further? What caused you to stop?"

"I—I saw somebody upon the roof of the porch."

"Was it light?"

"There was a faint light in the sky, of early dawn. I walked over toward the path, and looked up at the porch roof."

"What did you see?"

"I saw someone get out of the window from the hall, on to the roof. I—I—They walked over to Mr. Ashton's window and seemed to be trying to open it."

"Who was it?" The crucial question of all that had been asked her came like the snapping of a lash, and, as she comprehended it, her face became flushed, then ghastly pale.

"I—I—must I answer that question?"

"You must."

"But—I—I cannot!" she burst into sobs, and buried her face in her hands. I feared that she was going to faint.

The Magistrate looked at her sternly.

"Miss Temple," he said, "evidence has been given here this morning which points strongly toward a prisoner in this court as the person guilty of Mr. Ashton's death. Your answer to my question may confirm or disprove his guilt. I direct you to answer my question at once. Whom did you see upon the porch roof?"

Miss Temple looked despairingly about her, rose with a ghastly look from her chair, and, facing the magistrate said: "It—it—oh, my God!—it was my father!" Then she collapsed limply against the rail.

Major Temple rose from his seat and stood white and trembling. "Muriel!" he cried, in a voice filled with incredulous amazement and horror, which rang throughout the whole room.

I sprang forward with outstretched arms, but Inspector Burns was before me. He placed Miss Temple tenderly in her chair: she was unconscious.