“We will refer to them as the remains, if you prefer it,” said the coroner.

“I do prefer it,” was the reply, and the objector sat down.

“Very well,” rejoined the coroner, and he proceeded to call the witnesses, of whom the first was the labourer who had discovered the bones in the watercress-bed.

“Do you happen to know how long it was since the beds had been cleaned out previously?” the coroner asked, when the witness had told the story of the discovery.

“They was cleaned out by Mr. Tapper’s orders just before he gave them up.  That will be a little better than two years ago.  In May it were.  I helped to clean ’em.  I worked on this very same place and there wasn’t no bones there then.”

The coroner glanced at the jury.  “Any questions, gentlemen?” he asked.

The cobbler directed an intimidating scowl at the witness and demanded: 

“Were you searching for bones when you came on these remains?”

“Me!” exclaimed the witness.  “What should I be searching for bones for?”

“Don’t prevaricate,” said the cobbler sternly; “answer the question:  Yes or no.”

“No; of course I wasn’t.”

The juryman shook his enormous head dubiously as though implying that he would let it pass this time but it mustn’t happen again; and the examination of the witnesses continued, without eliciting anything that was new to me or giving rise to any incident, until the sergeant had described the finding of the right arm in the Cuckoo Pits.

“Was this an accidental discovery?” the coroner asked.

“No.  We had instructions from Scotland Yard to search any likely ponds in this neighbourhood.”

The coroner discreetly forbore to press this matter any farther, but my friend the cobbler was evidently on the qui vive, and I anticipated a brisk cross-examination for Mr. Badger when his turn came.  The inspector was apparently of the same opinion, for I saw him cast a glance of the deepest malevolence at the too inquiring disciple of St. Crispin.  In fact, his turn came next, and the cobbler’s hair stood up with unholy joy.

The finding of the lower half of the trunk in Staple’s Pond at Loughton was the inspector’s own achievement, but he was not boastful about it.  The discovery, he remarked, followed naturally on the previous one in the Cuckoo Pits.

“Had you any private information that led you to search this particular neighbourhood?” the cobbler asked.

“We had no private information whatever,” replied Badger.

“Now I put it to you,” pursued the juryman, shaking a forensic, and very dirty, forefinger at the inspector; “here are certain remains found at Sidcup; here are certain other remains found at St. Mary Cray, and certain others at Lee.  All those places are in Kent.  Now isn’t it very remarkable that you should come straight down to Epping Forest, which is in Essex, and search for those bones and find ’em?”