"Yes, I borrowed from Dacre Wynne. I'd sooner have cut my right hand off than have done it, but I knew Merriton was going to be married, and I wouldn't saddle him with my bills. Don't look at me like that, Nigel, old chap, you know I _couldn't_! Tony West has only enough for himself, and I didn't want to go to loan sharks. So the mater suggested Dacre Wynne. I went to him, in her name, and ate the dust. It was beastly--but he promised to stump up. And he did. I'm working now on a paper, to try and pay as much off as I can, and--a cousin is keeping the mater until I can look after her myself. We've taken a little place out Chelsea way. That's all." "H'm. And you can show proof of this, if the jury requires it?" put in the coroner, at this juncture. "I can--here and now." He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out a sheaf of papers, tossing them in front of the coroner, who, after a glance at their contents, seemed to be satisfied that they gave the answer he sought. "Thank you.... And you have no revolver, Mr. Stark, even if you had reason for killing Mr. Wynne?" Stark gave a little start of surprise. "Reason for _killing_ him? You're not trying to intimate that _I_ killed him, are you? Of all the idiotic things! No, I have no revolver, Mr. Coroner. And I've nothing more to say." "Then stand down," said the coroner, and Lester Stark threaded his way back to the chair he had occupied during the proceedings, rather red in the face, and with blazing eyes and tightly set lips. A stream of other witnesses came and gave their stories. Brellier told of how he had been rung up by Merriton to ask if there were any news of Wynne's arrival at the house. Told, in fact, all that he admitted to know of the night's affair, and ended up his evidence with the remark that "nothing on earth or in heaven would make him believe that Sir Nigel Merriton was guilty of murder." Things were narrowing down. There was a restlessness about the court; time was getting on and everything pointed one way. After some discussion with the jury, the foreman of it, a stout, pretentious fellow, rose to his feet and whispered a few hurried words to the coroner. That gentleman wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief and looked about him. It had been a trying business altogether. He'd be glad of his supper. He got to his feet and turned to the crowded room.