The girl stated that Bolton had retired to bed at eight on the ground floor, and the bedroom had a window—­as marked in the plan—­which looked on to the river a stone-throw distant.  At nine or a trifle later witness went out to have a few words with her lover.  In the darkness she saw that the window was open and that Bolton was talking to an old woman muffled in a shawl.  She could not see the woman’s face, nor judge of her stature, as she was stooping down to listen to Bolton.  Witness did not take much notice, as she was in a hurry to see her lover.  When she returned past the window at ten o’clock it was closed and the light was extinguished, so she thought that Mr. Bolton was asleep.

“But, to tell the truth,” said Eliza Flight, “I never thought anything of the matter at all.  It was only after the murder that I saw how important it was I should remember everything.”

“And you have?”

“Yes, sir,” said the girl, honestly enough.  “I have told you everything that happened on that night.  Next morning—­” She hesitated.

“Well, what about next morning?”

“Mr. Bolton had locked his door.  I know that, because a few minutes after eight on the night before, not knowing he had retired.  I tried to enter the room and make ready the bed for the night.  He sang out through the door—­which was locked, for I tried it—­that he was in bed.  That was a lie also, as after nine I saw him talking to the woman at the window.”

“You previously said an old woman,” said the Coroner, referring to his notes.  “How do you know she was old?”

“I can’t say if she was old or young,” said the witness candidly; “it’s only a manner of speaking.  She had a dark shawl over her head and a dark dress.  I couldn’t say if she was old or young, fair or dark, stout or lean, tall or short.  The night was dark.”

The Coroner referred to the plan.

“There is a gas-lamp near the window of the bedroom.  Did you not see her in that light?”

“Oh, yes, sir; but just for a moment.  I took very little notice.  Had I known that the gentleman was to be murdered, I should have taken a great deal of notice.”

“Well, about this locked door?”

“It was locked over-night, sir, but when I went next morning, it was not locked.  I knocked and knocked, but could get no answer.  As it was eleven, I thought the gentleman was sleeping very long, so I tried to open the door.  It was not locked, as I say—­but,” added witness with emphasis, “the window was snibbed and the blind was down.”

“That is natural enough,” said the Coroner.  “Mr. Bolton, after his interview with the woman, would of course snib the window, and pull down the blind.  When he went away next morning he would unlock the door.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but, as we know, he didn’t go away next morning, being in the packing case, nailed down.”

The Coroner could have kicked himself for the very natural mistake he had made, for he saw a derisive grin on the faces around him, and particularly on that of Inspector Date.