“Absolutely.” “So then, your anger against Guy Markenmore died out?” “Altogether! I began to see that I might have been mistaken, and that I had made a fool of myself.” “Now supposing you had met Guy Markenmore again, what then?” “I should have begged his pardon and offered to shake hands with him.” “But—you never did meet him again?” “Never! I have never seen Guy Markenmore, alive or dead, since I last saw him at Markenmore Vicarage some seven years and five months ago.” Walkinshaw, in his turn, glanced at the jury. Then he nodded to his witness. “Say, in your own fashion, what were your movements last Tuesday morning,” he said. “I can tell that in a few words,” replied Harborough. “I returned home, after seven years’ absence, on Monday afternoon. I was somewhat excited by my home-coming, and by meeting two or three old friends and so on. I came to this house for one thing—and I did not sleep very well that night. Also, I am always a very early riser. As I couldn’t sleep, I got up at three o’clock, left my house, and went up the downs to the highest point. I came back by Markenmore Hollow and Woodland Cottage, and went home. I was in my own bedroom again at a quarter to five.” “You never saw Guy Markenmore?” “Never.” “Nor men walking on the downs?” “I never saw anybody from leaving Greycloister to returning to it.” “Do you know anything whatever of the circumstances of Guy Markenmore’s death?” “Nothing!” “On your oath. You are innocent of any share in it?” “Absolutely innocent!” Walkinshaw sat down, and as nobody else showed any intention of questioning Harborough, he presently walked away from the witness-box. The Coroner glanced round the officials at the table. “This would seem a convenient stage for adjourning the enquiry,” he said. “But I understand there is a witness here who has volunteered information, of what nature nobody seems to know, and I think we had better hear what he has to say. Call Charles Grimsdale.” CHAPTER IX THE MIDNIGHT MEETING The numerous people in court who knew Markenmore and its immediate vicinity, turned with one accord as the Coroner spoke and looked at a corner of the room wherein, all through the proceedings, a man had leaned against the oak panelling, carefully watchful, eagerly listening to all that had been said. He was a thick-set, clean-shaven man, save for a pair of close-cropped whiskers that ornamented the upper part of his fresh-coloured cheeks, a man of a horsy appearance, who ever since the Coroner took his seat, had persistently chewed at a bit of straw that protruded from the corner of his firm-set lips. This horsy appearance was accentuated by his garments—a suit of whipcord cloth, of the pepper-and-salt variety, smart box-cloth gaiters, and a white hunting stock, fastened by a large, good horseshoe pin. He looked like a head groom, but the folk in court knew him well enough for Grimsdale, landlord of the Sceptre Inn.