A barman, who had served both the women with drink just before the public-house closed for the night, was handled rather roughly. He had stepped with a jaunty air into the box, and came out of it looking cast down, uneasy.
And then there took place a very dramatic, because an utterly unexpected, incident. It was one of which the evening papers made the utmost, much to Mrs. Bunting’s indignation. But neither coroner nor jury—and they, after all, were the people who mattered—thought a great deal of it.
There had come a pause in the proceedings. All seven witnesses had been heard, and a gentleman near Mrs. Bunting whispered, "They are now going to call Dr. Gaunt. He’s been in every big murder case for the last thirty years. He’s sure to have something interesting to say. It was really to hear him I came."
But before Dr. Gaunt had time even to get up from the seat with which he had been accommodated close to the coroner, there came a stir among the general public, or, rather, among those spectators who stood near the low wooden door which separated the official part of the court from the gallery.
The coroner’s officer, with an apologetic air, approached the coroner, and handed him up an envelope. And again in an instant, there fell absolute silence on the court.
Looking rather annoyed, the coroner opened the envelope. He glanced down the sheet of notepaper it contained. Then he looked up.
"Mr." then he glanced down again. "Mr.—ah-
