"But the 23rd of January," here insinuated the coroner; "you made an appointment with the deceased then?"
"Certainly not," he replied.
"But you met her on that day?"
"Most emphatically no," he replied quietly. "I went down to Edbrooke Castle, my brother's place in Lincolnshire, on the 20th of last month, and only got back to town about three days ago."
"You swear to that, Mr. Lydgate?" asked the coroner.
"I do, indeed, and there are a score of witnesses to bear me out. The family, the house-party, the servants."
He tried to dominate his own excitement. I suppose, poor man, he had only just realised that certain horrible suspicions had been resting upon him. His solicitor pacified him, and presently he sat down, whilst I must say that everyone there present was relieved at the thought that the handsome young athlete was not a murderer, after all. To look at him it certainly seemed preposterous.
But then, of course, there was the deadlock, and as there were no more witnesses to be heard, no new facts to elucidate, the jury returned the usual verdict against some person or persons unknown; and we, the keenly interested spectators, were left to face the problem—Who murdered Mary Nicholls, and where was her sister Susan?
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