But this interruption, this—this accusation, had utterly upset the witness. She began contradicting herself hopelessly. The man she had seen hurrying by in the semi-darkness below was tall—no, he was short. He was thin—no, he was a stoutish young man. And as to whether he was carrying anything, there was quite an acrimonious discussion. Most positively, most confidently, the witness declared that she had seen a newspaper parcel under his arm; it had bulged out at the back—so she declared. But it was proved, very gently and firmly, that she had said nothing of the kind to the gentleman from Scotland Yard who had taken down her first account—in fact, to him she had declared confidently that the man had carried nothing—nothing at all; that she had seen his arms swinging up and down. One fact—if fact it could be called—the coroner did elicit. Lizzie Cole suddenly volunteered the statement that as he had passed her window he had looked up at her. This was quite a new statement. “He looked up at you?” repeated the coroner. “You said nothing of that in your examination.” “I said nothink because I was scared—nigh scared to death!” “If you could really see his countenance, for we know the night was dark and foggy, will you please tell me what he was like?” But the coroner was speaking casually, his hand straying over his desk; not a creature in that court now believed the woman’s story. “Dark!” she answered dramatically. “Dark, almost black! If you can take my meaning, with a sort of nigger look.” And then there was a titter. Even the jury smiled. And sharply the coroner bade Lizzie Cole stand down. Far more credence was given to the evidence of the next witness. This was an older, quieter-looking woman, decently dressed in black. Being the wife of a night watchman whose work lay in a big warehouse situated about a hundred yards from the alley or passage where the crimes had taken place, she had gone out to take her husband some food he always had at one in the morning. And a man had passed her, breathing hard and walking very quickly. Her attention had been drawn to him because she very seldom met anyone at that hour, and because he had such an odd, peculiar look and manner. Mrs. Bunting, listening attentively, realised that it was very much from what this witness had said that the official description of The Avenger had been composed—that description which had brought such comfort to her, Ellen Bunting’s, soul. This witness spoke quietly, confidently, and her account of the newspaper parcel the man was carrying was perfectly clear and positive. “It was a neat parcel,” she said, “done up with string.” She had thought it an odd thing for a respectably dressed young man to carry such a parcel—that was what had made her notice it. But when pressed, she had to admit that it had been a very foggy night—so foggy that she herself had been afraid of losing her way, though every step was familiar.