Private Detective Smithers now took the stand and stated the case from his point of view; which was, in short, that the conversation he had overheard at the hotel between the prisoner and another person here present, and the statement which the prisoner made to him personally, proved that he was without doubt the Richard Allingford mentioned in the indictment. In conclusion he begged that the person styling himself Faro Charlie should be summoned to corroborate his testimony. Faro Charlie was accordingly called and placed in the dock, and after the usual preliminaries the magistrate examined him as follows: "What is your name?" "Faro Charlie." "Any other name?" "Smith." "Very well, Charles Smith; are you a citizen of the United States?" "I be." "Of what occupation?" "Miner." "Do you recognise the prisoner as the person whom you met at the George last evening?" "I do." "Can you swear that he is Richard Allingford?" "No." Scarsdale's heart leaped at that "no"; salvation was at hand after all. The magistrate continued: "Do you believe this person to be Richard Allingford?" "Yes, on the whole I think I do." The prisoner's heart sank. "But," continued the witness, "I can't be sure. Fifteen years is a long time. I wouldn't have known him if he hadn't owned up to his name. He might be playing me for a sucker." "In other words, you think the prisoner to be Richard Allingford, but are unwilling to swear to his identity?" "That's the stuff," replied Faro Charlie. "I swored as a man was my uncle, three years ago at 'Frisco, and he put a bullet into me next day, 'cause I lost him the case. After which I ain't swearing against a pal," and he left the stand. The case now proceeded, and the detective related how on Wednesday, the 16th of October, the prisoner, Richard Allingford, in company with other lawless characters, had dined at the Lion's Head, and, during a dispute with the landlord concerning the quality of the wine, had thrown that personage out of his own second-storey window; telling his wife, who protested against such actions, to put her husband in the bill, which they left without settling. Then they proceeded to paint the town of Winchester a lurid crimson, breaking windows, beating a policeman who interfered, and raiding a night coffee-stall in the process. This recital of wrong and outrage being finished, the magistrate addressed the prisoner as follows: "What is your name?" "Harold Stanley Malcolm St. Hubart Scarsdale." Some one in the audience murmured, "O Lor'!" "You refuse to admit that your name is Richard Allingford?" continued the justice. "I have just given you my name." "Are you an American?" "No, I am an Englishman." "Where do you live?" "'The Towers,' Sussex." The audience again voiced its sentiments; this time to the effect that the prisoner was "a 'owling swell"; but order was restored and the case once more proceeded. "What is your profession?" "I am a clerk in the War Office."