“Tell us, then,” he said, “your version of what took place that night.”

And Merriton told it, told it with a ring in his voice, his head high, and with eyes that flashed and shone with the cause he was pleading.  Told it with fire and spirit; and even as the words fell from his lips, felt the sudden chill of disbelief that seemed to grip the room in its cold hand.  Not a sound broke the recital.  He had been given a fair hearing, at all events, though in that community of hard-headed, unimaginative men there was not one that believed him—­save those few who already knew the story to be true.

The coroner stopped fitting his fingers together as the firm voice faltered and was finally silent, and shot a glance at Merriton from under his shaggy brows.

“And you expect us to believe that story, Sir Nigel; knowing what we do about the bad blood between you and the dead man, and having here the evidence of our own eyes in this revolver bullet?”

“I have told the truth.  I can do no more.”

“No man can,” responded the coroner, gravely, “but it is that which I must admit I query.  The story is so far-fetched, so utterly impossible for a rationally minded being—­”

“But you must admit that he was not a rationally minded being that night!” broke in a quick voice from across the room, and everyone turned to look into Doctor Bartholomew’s seamed, anxious face.  “Under the influence of drink and that devil incarnate, Dacre Wynne, a man couldn’t be answerable for—­”

“Silence in the Court!” rapped out the coroner, and the good doctor was forced to obey.

Then the inquiry went on.  The prisoner was told to stand down, amid a chorus of protesting voices, for, though the story was disbelieved, everyone who had come in contact with Merriton had formed an instant liking for him.  No one wished to see him condemned as guilty—­save those few who seemed determined to send him to the gallows.

Three or four possible witnesses were called, but nothing of any importance was gleaned from them; then Borkins was summoned to the table.  As he pushed past ’Toinette’s chair from the knot of villagers which surrounded him, his face was white, and his lips compressed.  He took his stand in front of the jury and prepared to answer the questions which were put to him by the coroner.  That man’s method seemed to have changed since his questioning of Sir Nigel and he flung out his queries like a rapid-fire gun.

Borkins came through the ordeal fairly well, all things considered.  He told his story of what he had said he had seen that night, in a comparatively steady voice, though he was of the type that is addicted to nervousness when appearing before people.

Cleek, at the back of the court, with Mr. Narkom on his right and Dollops on his left, waited for that one weak spot in the evidence, and saw with a smile how the coroner lit upon it.  His opinion of that worthy went up considerably.