‘Shall I volunteer my opinion before the Coroner?’ he asked himself. ‘To what end? It is but a theory, after all. And a Coroner is rarely a man inclined to give his ear to speculations of that kind. I’d better write to one of the newspapers. Would it do any good if I were to bring the crime home to the husband? Not much, perhaps. Wherever the wretch goes he carries with him a conscience that must be a worse punishment than the condemned cell. And to hang him would not bring her back to life. Poor foolish, lost creature, the only woman I ever loved.’ The Prince of Wales’s Feathers--more popularly known as the Feathers--a public-house at the corner of Cibber Street and Woodpecker Court, was the scene of the inquiry. The witnesses were the doctor, the police-sergeant, the detective who had assisted in the examination of the premises, Desrolles, Mrs. Evitt, and Mrs. Rawber. Jack Chicot, the most important witness of all, had not been seen since he left the house under the pretence of summoning the police. This disappearance of the husband, after giving an alarm which roused the sleeping household--an altogether unnecessary and foolish act, supposing him to be the murderer--was the most remarkable feature in the case, and puzzled the Coroner. He questioned Mrs. Evitt closely as to the habits of the dancer and her husband. ‘You say they quarrelled frequently,’ he said. ‘Were their disputes of a violent character?’ ‘I have heard her violent, but never him. She was very fond of him, poor thing; though she wasn’t a woman to give way or to be guided by a husband. She was fonder of drink than she ought to be, and he tried to keep her from it--leastways, when they first came to my house. Later he seemed to have give her up, as you may say, and let her go her own way.’ ‘Did he seem attached to her?’ ‘Not to my fancy. I thought the love was all on her side.’ ‘Was he a man of violent temper?’ ‘No; he was one that took things very quiet. I used to think there was something underhand in his character. I can call to mind her saying to me once, after they had been quarrelling, “Mrs. Evitt, that man hates me too much to strike me. If he was once to give way to his temper he’d be the death of me.” Those words of hers made an impression upon me at the time----’ ‘Come, come,’ interrupted the Coroner, ‘we can’t hear anything about your impressions. This isn’t evidence!’ but Mrs. Evitt’s slow speech flowed onward like a tranquil stream meandering through a valley. ‘“I’d rather have a low brute that beat me black and blue,” she said to me another time, poor dear thing, “if he was sorry for it afterwards, than a cold-hearted gentleman that can sting me to death with a word.”’ ‘I want to hear facts, not assertions,’ said the Coroner, impatiently. ‘Did you ever know the husband of the deceased to be guilty of any act of violence, either towards his wife or any one else?’ ‘Never.’