"I think," he observed, "that before taking the evidence of the next witness, it might be convenient if we were to adjourn for luncheon." So we adjourned. At least, some of us did. The prisoner was taken away. I heard them removing him behind me. Most of the counsel removed themselves, and some of the people. The greater part of us who stayed set to eating. Sandwiches were produced and other things. Mysterious refreshments were brought in from without. I had my own little store. Everybody chattered. It was quite a festive scene. "Call Alexander Taunton!" Proceedings recommenced by a repetition of the words. But again he did not come. "Alexander Taunton!" One heard the name shouted by different voices, apparently in different passages and at different doors. Still none answered. The delay ruffled the judge's feelings. "What does this witness mean by keeping the court waiting? Where is he?" Sir Haselton Jardine's colleague rose with the apparent intention of personally assisting in the search. "Here he is," said some one. And there he was. I almost dropped from my seat. Who should get into the box but Reginald Townsend's Corsican brother, Jack Haines's private detective, who had told me that his name was Stewart Trevannion. I could scarcely believe my own eyes at first. But it was the man--if one had seen him once, there was no mistaking him. To me he seemed to be peculiarly ill at ease--an uneasiness which was not by any means concealed by an attempt to carry things off with a flourish. He bowed to the judge, he bowed to the jury; I believe he was going to bow to the lawyers too, only at the last moment he changed his mind. He placed his silk hat on the rail at his side. He took off one of his brand-new gloves. Unbuttoning his overcoat, he opened it so as to display his chest. There was something about him which destroyed the effect he evidently intended to produce--it made the people smile. The judge was serious enough. "What do you mean by keeping the court waiting?" Alexander Taunton--or whatever his name was--pressed the finger-tips of his left hand against his chest. "I beg your lordship's pardon. I had just that moment stepped outside." I could have wagered he had stepped outside to drink just another drop to help him to keep his courage up. The more I looked at him the plainer I saw that there was quite a hunted look about his eyes. The story he told in response to Sir Haselton Jardine's questions filled me with something more than amazement. Of course he was the Taunton whose evidence at the examination before the magistrates one had read in the papers, but I had never for an instant suspected--who would have done?--that the two men were, or could be, one and the same. By the time he had finished he had hammered every nail in Tommy's coffin. And the strangest part about it was that--as none knew better than I--certainly the larger portion of what he said was true.