The jurymen coming down again—some of them rather white-faced and wide-eyed—the Coroner abruptly motioned them to their seats, and turned to Tokely as he took his own. “Inspector, I think we may have Mr. Chater in here now.” The general public seemed to stir and sway, as though bent by a sudden wind; bending towards each other, and whispering hoarsely, yet keeping their eyes with one accord turned towards that door. Inspector Tokely hurried out, and came back in another moment, glancing over his shoulder through the doorway; immediately following him came Philip Chater, with two constables in close attendance. He looked round for a moment at the murmuring crowd; seemed to seek one face in it, and to smile as he recognised it. At the same moment, a woman in the crowd burst into violent weeping. The Coroner rapped the table impatiently with his knuckles. “Any demonstration on the part of any member of the public will necessitate my clearing the room at once,” he said, looking sternly about him. One of the jurymen—no other than old Toby Siggs—rose ponderously in his place. “Askin’ yer pardon, Mister,” he said, slowly—“I rather think as ’ow that was my ole gel.” Then, before the astonished Coroner could interpolate a remark, Toby turned abruptly, and addressed his spouse. “’Earty is it, ole gel,” he said, in a voice like muffled thunder, for her special hearing—“we’ll git ’im off, afore you’d ’ave time to draw ’arf a pint. Bear in mind, ole gel, as ’ow I’ve got a vote.” “My good sir,” interposed the Coroner, hurriedly,—“let me impress upon you that this business must be tried judicially and fairly—with no bias. Understand that clearly.” Toby nodded his head with much gravity. “Sich are my intentions, Mister,” he said. “So fire away as ’ard as you like. An’ Gawd ’elp the winner!” With which pious exclamation, Toby Siggs sat down perfectly satisfied with himself.