Hot, tired, and oppressed humanity made its warm breath felt in the close, ill-ventilated room. Smelling-salts would not dispel the unpleasantly mingling odours of damp clothes and muddy boots which rose from the plebeian crowd in the rear. But nobody stirred; no one would have thought of leaving before the last act of this interesting play. The chief actor was not on the stage for the moment, but his presence was felt. It was magnetic in its appeal to excitement. Every question put by the coroner, every reply given by the witnesses, had, as it were, Luke de Mountford for its aim: every word tended toward him, his undoing, the enmeshing of his denials in the close web of circumstantial evidence. Then a diversion occurred. The man in the shabby clothes, who looked like a beetle, and who had marshalled his companions into the court room early in the day, was called upon by the usher to come forward. His strange, poorly-clad figure detached itself from the groups immediately round him, his long, loose limbs seeming to swing themselves forward. His four companions--the three women and the other man--were seized apparently with great agitation and whispered eagerly among themselves. No one in the crowd could guess why these people had been called. They seemed so completely out of the picture which had its invisible frame in Grosvenor Square. "Go on, Jim!" whispered one of the young women, "they can't do nothing to ye." And the beetle-like creature shambled forward, with arms gangling beside him, a humble, apologetic look on his care-worn face. He might have been any age from thirty to sixty; time and a perpetual struggle for existence had wiped way all traces of actual age. The cheeks were hollow, and eyes, mouth, and moustache had a droop which added to the settled melancholy of the face. He was obviously very nervous and looked across at his own friends, who strove to encourage him by signs and whispers. He nearly dropped the Bible when it was handed to him, and no one could really hear the oath which he repeated mechanically at the usher's bidding. At last he mustered up a sufficient amount of courage to state his name and address. "James Baker," he said in answer to the coroner's question. "Bricklayer by trade." "And where do you live?" "At 147 Clapham Junction Road, sir," replied the man, scarcely above a whisper. "Speak up, please," admonished the coroner, "the jury can't hear you. You came here, I understand, prepared to make a statement?" "Yes, sir." "Of what nature?" The man shifted his position from one leg to the other. Heavy beads of perspiration stood out on his pallid forehead. "Go on, Jim; don't be afeeard," came from the body of the court. "Silence there!" commanded the usher. "I wished to say, sir," resumed the man, trying to steady his voice, "that the deceased whom I saw lying in the coffin yonder is my own son, Paul Baker, sir." "Your son!"