Meanwhile, the coroner was rapidly summing up the evidence. Murder, he told the jury, was clearly established in both cases; and they need have no hesitation as to their verdict on that point. But who had committed the murders? If they were satisfied that in either case the evidence established the guilt of some definite person, it was their duty to bring in a verdict against that person. In his opinion, however, the evidence was wholly inadequate to form the basis of any positive conclusion. It might be that John Prinsep had been killed by George Brooklyn—the finding of the handkerchief and his known visit to the house were certainly suspicious circumstances. It might be, on the other hand, that George Brooklyn had been killed by John Prinsep—the note in Prinsep’s writing found in the temple, the cigar-holder, and his known presence in the garden were all grounds for suspicion. But both these sets of clues could not point to the truth, and the jury had no means of determining on which the greater reliance should be placed. Indeed, both sets of clues might be misleading, and certainly neither was by itself enough to form the basis of a verdict. The murders might both be the work of some third person—and one of them _must_ be the work of a third person—but no evidence had been placed before them which would justify a verdict against any particular person. Suspicion, he would remind them, was a very different thing from proof, and even with their suspicions they must not be too free in face of the very slender evidence before them. After the coroner’s summing up, it was clear that only one verdict was possible. After only a moment’s consultation, the foreman announced that their verdict in both cases was “Wilful Murder by some person or persons unknown.” The coroner made a short speech thanking every one, and the court adjourned. Joan was glad to breathe fresh air again after her first experience of the suffocating atmosphere of a court. By this time Walter Brooklyn was safe under lock and key. As he reached the door of the court half an hour earlier, he felt a touch on his sleeve, and, turning, saw Inspector Blaikie immediately behind him. “Well, what do you want now?” he said sullenly. The inspector beckoned him into a corner, and there showed him the warrant duly made out for his arrest. Walter Brooklyn glanced at it. For a moment he drew himself up to his full height and grasped his stick tightly as if he were considering the prospects of a mad struggle for liberty. Then he gave a short laugh. “I will come with you,” he said; and then he added suddenly, with a fury the more impressive because its utterance was checked—“you damned little fool of a policeman.” “Come, come, Mr. Brooklyn,” said the inspector. “I’m only doing my duty.” Walter Brooklyn made no reply, and the inspector added: “Are you ready now?” “Call a taxi,” said Walter. “I suppose you will not walk me handcuffed through the streets,” he added bitterly.