"I mean to give my evidence at the coroner's inquest that will be held to-day, on the Frenchman who was murdered last night at the Saloon Tavern. It is not conclusive--it does not fix anything upon him; it is merely inferential." "Connecting him with the murder?" whispered the man, something like reverence mingling with his curiosity, as he discovered the interesting character of his interrogator. "I can only say possibly connecting him in some way with it. Where does the man live?" "He did live in Rosemary Court, but he left that, I think. I'll ask, if you please, Sir. Tompkins--hi! You know where Paul Davies puts up. Left Rosemary Court?" "Yes, five weeks. He went to Gold Ring Alley, but he's left that a week ago, and I don't know where he is now, but will easy find him. Will it answer at eight this evening, Sir?" "Quite. I want a servant of mine to have a sight of him," said Longcluse. "If you like, Sir, to leave your address and a stamp, we'll send you the information by post, and save you calling here." "Thanks, yes, I'll do that." So Mr. Longcluse took his leave, and proceeded to the place where the coroner was sitting. Mr. Longcluse was received in that place with distinction. The moneyed man was honoured--eyes were gravely fixed on him, and respectful whispers went about. A seat was procured for him; and his evidence, when he came to give it, was heard with marked attention, and a general hush of expectation. * * * * * The reader, with his permission, must now pass away, seaward, from this smoky London, for a few minutes, into a clear air, among the rustling foliage of ancient trees, and the fragrance of hay-fields, and the song of small birds. On the London and Dover road stands, as you know, the "Royal Oak," still displaying its ancient signboard, where you behold King Charles II sitting with laudable composure, and a crown of Dutch gold on his head, and displaying his finery through an embrasure in the foliage, with an ostentation somewhat inconsiderate, considering the proximity of the halberts of the military emissaries in search of him to the royal features. As you drive towards London, it shows at the left side of the road, a good old substantial inn and posting-house. Its business has dwindled to something very small indeed, for the traffic prefers the rail, and the once bustling line of road is now quiet. The sun had set, but a reflected glow from the sky was still over everything; and by this somewhat lurid light Mr. Truelock, the innkeeper, was observing from the steps the progress of a chaise, with four horses and two postilions, which was driving at a furious pace down the gentle declivity about a quarter of a mile away, from the Dover direction towards the "Royal Oak" and London. "It's a runaway. Them horses has took head. What do you think, Thomas?" he asked of the old waiter who stood beside him.