“Mr. Tremlett’s evidence was corroborated in most respects by a waiter and by the hall porter.  They had both seen the deceased come in at seven o’clock in company with a gentleman, and their description of the latter coincided with that of the appearance of Mr. Timothy Beddingfield, whom, however, they did not actually know.

“At this point of the proceedings the foreman of the jury wished to know why Mr. Timothy Beddingfield’s evidence had not been obtained, and was informed by the detective-inspector in charge of the case that that gentleman had seemingly left Birmingham, but was expected home shortly.  The coroner suggested an adjournment pending Mr. Beddingfield’s appearance, but at the earnest request of the detective he consented to hear the evidence of Peter Tyrrell, the night porter at the Castle Hotel, who, if you remember the case at all, succeeded in creating the biggest sensation of any which had been made through this extraordinary and weirdly gruesome case.

“’It was the first time I had been on duty at “The Castle,” he said, ’for I used to be night porter at “Bright’s,” in Wolverhampton, but just after I had come on duty at ten o’clock a gentleman came and asked if he could see the Hon. Robert de Genneville.  I said that I thought he was in, but would send up and see.  The gentleman said:  “It doesn’t matter.  Don’t trouble; I know his room.  Twenty-one, isn’t it?” And up he went before I could say another word.’

“‘Did he give you any name?’ asked the coroner.

“‘No, sir.’

“‘What was he like?’

“’A young gentleman, sir, as far as I can remember, in an Inverness cape and Glengarry cap, but I could not see his face very well as he stood with his back to the light, and the cap shaded his eyes, and he only spoke to me for a minute.’

“‘Look all round you,’ said the coroner quietly.  ’Is there any one in this court at all like the gentleman you speak of?’

“An awed hush fell over the many spectators there present as Peter Tyrrell, the night porter of the Castle Hotel, turned his head towards the body of the court and slowly scanned the many faces there present; for a moment he seemed to hesitate—­only for a moment though, then, as if vaguely conscious of the terrible importance his next words might have, he shook his head gravely and said: 

“‘I wouldn’t like to swear.’

“The coroner tried to press him, but with true British stolidity he repeated:  ‘I wouldn’t like to say.’

“‘Well, then, what happened?’ asked the coroner, who had perforce to abandon his point.

“’The gentleman went upstairs, sir, and about a quarter of an hour later he come down again, and I let him out.  He was in a great hurry then, he threw me a half-crown and said:  “Good night."’

“’And though you saw him again then, you cannot tell us if you would know him again?’

“Once more the hall porter’s eyes wandered as if instinctively to a certain face in the court; once more he hesitated for many seconds which seemed like so many hours, during which a man’s honour, a man’s life, hung perhaps in the balance.