Next came Mr. Drayton, the Duxley superintendent of police, who told the story of his arrest of the prisoner, and how he had searched the house and grounds of Park Newton, but could find no trace of the weapon by which the deed had been done. Next came a Mr. Whitstone, uncle to the murdered man, to whom, as the nearest relative in England, had been handed over the effects of the deceased. Mr. Whitstone deposed that, after a careful examination of the said effects, he had come to the conclusion that nothing had been stolen. So far as he could judge, no article of value was missing; and consequently, whatever other motive might have been at the bottom of the crime, it could not have been done for the sake of robbery. With the examination of one or two minor witnesses the case for the prosecution came to an end. There were no witnesses to call for the defence, and Mr. Tressil at once arose to address the court. Tom Bristow was sitting close behind three or four junior counsel, and in full view of the jury. Whispered one of these fledglings to another, so that Tom could not help overhearing him: “That jet stud will hang him.” Answered the other: “Bet you a new hat old Tressil won’t be on his legs more than thirty minutes.” “If the jury agree—and I don’t see how they can disagree—the whole thing will be over by five thirty.” “Hope so, I’m sure. Meet you at eight for a game of pool?” “I’m your man.” It was now twenty minutes to four o’clock. Mr. Tressil began his speech for the defence. He had only got through the three or four opening sentences when one of the jury fell forward in the box, and, on being lifted up by two of his colleagues, it was found that he had been suddenly seized with illness. The juryman in question was Mr. Sprague, the chemist. He was carried at once into the open air. A buzz of curiosity and excitement ran round the court. Mr. Tressil sat down. The judge yawned politely behind his hand, and the junior barristers passed a snuff-box surreptitiously from one to another. In the course of three or four minutes Dr. Mackerith, who had followed Mr. Sprague into the side room, came back into court. Addressing the judge, said he: “My lord, I regret to inform you that Mr. Sprague, the juryman, is very ill indeed, and that there seems little or no probability that he will be able to resume his duties for at least three or four hours to come.” His lordship looked very much discomposed, and blew his nose violently. “I never, in the whole course of my experience, recollect such a circumstance before,” he remarked. “It is very annoying, and very unfortunate. It leaves me without any option in the matter. The court must stand adjourned till ten o’clock to-morrow morning.” CHAPTER III. A BOTTLE OF BURGUNDY