Five minutes later we panted up the steep steps into the corridor which led to our Court.  As luck would have it, our solicitor was in the act of pushing open the swing-doors.

I caught him by the arm and breathed into his ear.

“Important new evidence.  Vital.  We’ve got the witness here.”

He was a man of few words.

“In there,” he said shortly, pointing to a consulting room.  “I’ll get counsel.”

We trooped into the apartment and shut the door.

In silence we waited for what seemed a century.  Then there were hasty steps, the door opened, and the K.C., followed by his junior and the attorney, entered the room.

Briefly Berry related the story which Miss Lacey could tell.

“This is the lady,” he concluded.  “I know our case is closed, but surely she can be called?”

We hung upon the reply.

“Can she speak to the number?”

“No.  But in corroboration——­”

“My dear Major Pleydell,” said Tristram, “you need no corroboration.  The jury believe you.  They believe you were smashed up.  They believe it was done by a green touring car.  The devil of it is, they believe the defendant too.  And so they come to the very natural conclusion that, between the excitement of the moment and the pace at which the car was travelling, Mrs. Pleydell and Captain Mansel have made a mistake -perhaps only of one figure—­in the number they saw.  And, unless we can discredit that fellow’s story, call evidence to show he was out on that day, or something, I’m very much afraid we shall go down.  His counsel Is certain to ask for the benefit of the doubt, and they’ll give it him.”

I never remember feeling so disappointed.

I think we all felt the weight of his words, but our collapse was pitiful.  Lured by a treacherous hope into the belief that we were saved, we were fallen into a deeper Slough of Despond than before.  Jill was hard put to it to restrain her tears....

Listlessly we followed our advisers into Court, and a moment later the
Judge took his seat.

One or two applications, which did not concern our case, were made.  Then leading counsel for the defence rose to his feet and called his next witness—­

“Walter Dale.”

At the sound of the name I started violently.  Then, open-mouthed and trembling with excitement, I twisted myself round to get a glimpse of the witness as he approached the box.  Could it be possible that Fate with fiendish irony had selected the ex-trooper whom we had befriended to administer to our case the coup de grace?  It must be a man of another name.  But Dale was a chauffeur....

There was a stir at the back of the crowded Court.  Somebody was pushing his way forward.  Somebody....

It was Dale.

The short, stockily-built figure, that I had not seen for more than three years, stepped out of the ruck of onlookers and took its place in the witness-box.