A little fellow, who had informed us that he had been instructed by the Treasury, took me in hand. He might have been a cousin of the coroner’s; he, too, had sandy hair and the same peevish countenance. His questions at first were not particularly objectionable, but ere long they became of a kind which, if I had had my way, I would have been careful not to answer in any fashion save one. He had a trick of holding his hands in front of him, fidgeting a piece of paper between his fingers. His voice was, like himself, small and insignificant; but, when he chose, it had a singularly penetrating quality, which, for some reason, reminded me of the sound of sawing wood. He kept his eyes fixed almost continually on my face, glancing hungrily from feature to feature, as if desirous not to miss the movement of a muscle. Altogether he was like some pertinacious terrier who worried, not only in the way of business, but also for sport. I should like to have taken him by the scruff of the neck and shaken him. He wanted to know if Edwin Lawrence had been a friend of mine; how long I had known him, what I knew about him, when I had seen him last. I told him about the game of cards, but, somewhat to my surprise, he made no allusion to my loss, nor the terms on which we parted. And here began my blundering. I wished the Court to understand that, at parting, we were on the worst possible terms, and that I was in just the proper mood for committing murder. But Jordan--that was the little terrier fellow--would have none of it. He told me to confine myself to answering his questions; and that I would have an opportunity of making any statement, on my own account, which the Court might think fit to allow, when he had done with me. I wished to make my statement then; but with him against me, and the coroner, and an ass of a foreman, who said that the jury were unanimously of opinion that I was wasting time, I never had a chance. He had his way. Then began the real tug-of-war with his very next question. He asked me if, after I had retired to rest, I had been disturbed in the night. Then I saw a chance to score, after all. I said I had, by a dream; but when I was about to tell them of that mysterious vision, he stopped me. “Never mind about the dream. Dreams are not evidence.” Some of the audience tittered. I have not the faintest notion what at. I should have liked to supply them with an adequate reason. “But my dream is evidence--very much evidence. If you will let me tell it you, it will throw more light----” “Thank you. But were you disturbed by nothing beside a dream?--for instance, by some one coming through your bedroom window?” “I was not.” “Mr. Ferguson, take care. Do you say that no one came through your window?” “I say that I was not disturbed by any one.” “I see. You are particular about the form in which the question is put. I will alter it. I ask you--did any one come through your bedroom window after you had retired to rest?”