"I don't understand your question. I have told you that I never quarrelled with him." "Perhaps not; but there might have been some hidden animosity, some smothered feeling, stronger than any openly-expressed anger, hidden in your breast. Was there any such feeling?" "Not on my part." "Was there any such feeling on the part of the deceased?" Mr. Dunbar looked furtively at William Balderby. The junior partner's eyelids dropped under that stolen glance. It was clear that he knew the story of the forged bills. Had the coroner for Winchester been a clever man, he would have followed that glance of Mr. Dunbar's, and would have understood that the junior partner knew something about the antecedents of the dead man. But the coroner was not a very close observer, and Mr. Dunbar's eager glance escaped him altogether. "Yes," answered the Anglo-Indian, "Joseph Wilmot had a grudge against me before I sailed for Calcutta, but we settled all that at Southampton, and I promised to allow him an annuity." "You promised him an annuity?" "Yes—not a very large one—only fifty pounds a year; but he was quite satisfied with that promise." "He had some claim upon you, then?" "No, he had no claim whatever upon me," replied Mr. Dunbar, haughtily. Of course, it could be scarcely pleasant for a millionaire to be cross-questioned in this manner by an impertinent Hampshire coroner. The jurymen sympathized with the banker. The coroner looked rather puzzled. "If the deceased had no claim upon you, why did you promise him an annuity?" he asked, after a pause. "I made that promise for the sake of 'auld lang syne,'" answered Mr. Dunbar. "Joseph Wilmot was a favourite servant of mine five-and-thirty years ago. We were young men together. I believe that he had, at one time, a very sincere affection for me. I know that I always liked him." "How long were you in the grove with the deceased?" "Not more than ten minutes." "And you cannot describe the spot where you left him?" "Not very easily; I could point it out, perhaps, if I were taken there." "What time elapsed between your leaving the cathedral yard with the deceased and your returning to it without him?" "Perhaps half an hour." "Not longer?" "No; I do not imagine that it can have been longer." "Thank you, Mr. Dunbar; that will do for the present," said the coroner. The banker returned to his seat. Arthur Lovell, still watching him, saw that his strong white hand trembled a little as his fingers trifled with those glittering toys hanging to his watch-chain. The verger was the next person examined. He described how he had been loitering in the yard of the cathedral as the two men passed across it. He told how they had gone by arm-in-arm, laughing and talking together. "Which of them was talking as they passed you?" asked the coroner. "Mr. Dunbar." "Could you hear what he was saying?" "No, sir. I could hear his voice, but I couldn't hear the words."