"You must have known if he had been."

"I never touched him, and I asked no questions."

"What was he doing when you saw him last?"

"Hopping about and swearing."

"And you don't know what happened to him afterwards?"

"I see nothing; I'd seen more than enough already. I tell you I walked straight off home."

"And you heard nothing?"

"Nothing out of the way."

"Why haven't you told this story of yours before?"

"Because I didn't want to have any bother, that's why. I knew I hadn't killed him, that was enough for me. Small shot don't hurt no one--at least, not serious. Any man can have a shot at me for a ten-pound note; there's some that's had it for less. But when I heard you saying that the man as shot him stabbed him, then I had to speak--bound to. I wasn't going to have no charge of that kind made against me. And I have spoken, and you've got the truth."

"What time did it happen--all this you have been telling us about?"

Jim Baker answered to the best of his ability. He answered many other questions, also, to the best of his ability. He had a bad time of it.

But the worst time was to come when all the questions had been asked and answered.

The coroner announced that, in consequence of the fresh evidence which had been placed before the court, the inquiry would not close that day; but that there would be a further adjournment.

As Mr Baker pa.s.sed out of the room and down the stairs people drew away from him to let him pa.s.s, with an alacrity which was not exactly flattering. When he came out into the street, Granger, the policeman, came forward and laid his hand upon his shoulder, saying, in those squeaky tones which had caused him to be regarded with less respect than was perhaps desirable,--

"James Baker, I arrest you for wilful murder. You needn't say anything, but what you do say will be taken down and used against you. Take my advice and come quiet."

By way of answer Jim Baker stared at Granger and at the London detective at his side and at the people round about him. Then he inquired,--

"What's that you say?"

"I say that I arrest you for wilful murder, and my advice to you is to come quiet."

When Baker saw the policeman taking a pair of handcuffs out of his coat-tail pocket he drew a long breath.

"What's that you've got there?"

"You know what it is very well--it's handcuffs. Hold out your hands and don't let us have no trouble."

Jim Baker held out his hand, his right one. As the policeman advanced, ready to snap them on his wrist, Baker s.n.a.t.c.hed them from him and struck him with them a swinging blow upon the shoulder. Granger, yelling, dropped as if he had been shot. Although he was not tall, his weight was in the neighbourhood of sixteen stone, and he was not of a combative nature.

"If anybody wants some more," announced Mr Baker, "let him come on."

Apparently someone did want more. The words were hardly out of his mouth, before Nunn, the detective, had dodged another blow from the same weapon, and had closed with him in a very ugly grip.

There ensued the finest rough-and-tumble which had been seen in that parish within living memory. Jim Baker fought for all he was worth; when he had a gallon or so of beer inside him his qualifications in that direction were considerable. But numbers on the side of authority prevailed. In the issue he was borne to the lock-up in a cart, not only handcuffed, but with his legs tied together as well. As he went he cursed all and sundry, to the no small amus.e.m.e.nt of the heterogeneous gathering which accompanied the cart.

CHAPTER XVII

INJURED INNOCENCE

Mr Baker had some uncomfortable experiences. When he was brought before the magistrates it was first of all pointed out--as it were, inferentially--that he was not only a dangerous character, but, also, just the sort of person who might be expected to commit a heinous crime, as his monstrous behaviour when resisting arrest clearly showed.

Not content with inflicting severe injuries on the police, he had treated other persons, who had a.s.sisted them in their laudable attempts to take him into safe custody, even worse. In proof of this it was shown that one such person was in the cottage hospital, and two more under the doctor's hands; while Granger, the local constable, and Nunn, the detective in charge of the case, appeared in the witness-box, one with his arm in a sling, and the other with plastered face and bandaged head. The fact that the prisoner himself bore unmistakable traces of having lately been engaged in some lively proceedings did not enhance his naturally uncouth appearance. It was felt by more than one who saw him that he looked like the sort of person who was born to be hung.

His own statement in the coroner's court having been produced in evidence against him, it was supplemented by the statements of independent witnesses in a fashion which began to make the case against him look very ugly indeed. Both Miss Arnott and Mr Morice were called to prove that his own a.s.sertion--that he had threatened to shoot the master of Oak Dene--was only too true. While they were in the box the prisoner, who was unrepresented by counsel, preserved what, for him, was an unusual silence. He stared at them, indeed, and particularly at the lady, in a way which was almost more eloquent than speech. Then other witnesses were produced who shed a certain amount of light on his proceedings on that memorable Sat.u.r.day night.

It was shown, for instance, that he was well within the mark in saying that he had had a gla.s.s or two. Jenkins, the landlord of the "Rose and Crown," declared that he had had so many gla.s.ses that he had to eject him from his premises; he was "fighting drunk." In that condition he had staggered home, provided himself with a gun and gone out with it. A driver of a mail-cart, returning from conveying the mails to be taken by the night express to town, had seen him on a stile leading into Exham Park; had hailed him, but received no answer. A lad, the son of the woman with whom Baker lodged, swore that he had come in between two and three in the morning, seeming "very queer." He kept muttering to himself while endeavouring to remove his boots--muttering out loud. The lad heard him say, "I shot him--well, I shot him. What if I did shoot him? what if I did?" He kept saying this to himself over and over again. After he had gone to bed, the lad, struck by the singularity of his persistent repet.i.tion, looked at his gun. It had been discharged.

The lad swore that, to his own knowledge, the gun had been loaded when Baker had taken it out with him earlier in the night.

The prisoner did not improve matters by his continual interruptions. He volunteered corroborations of the witnesses' most damaging statements; demanding in truculent tones to be told what was the meaning of all the fuss.

"I shot the man--well, I've said I shot him. But that didn't do him no harm to speak of. I swear to G.o.d I didn't do anything else to him. I hadn't no more to do with killing him than an unborn babe."

There were those who heard, however, who were inclined to think that he had had a good deal more to do with killing him than he was inclined to admit.

Miss Arnott, also, was having some experiences of a distinctly unpleasant kind. It was, to begin with, a shock to hear that Jim Baker had been arrested on the capital charge. When she was told what he had said, and read it for herself in the newspapers, she began to understand what had been the meaning of the gunshot and of the groans which had ensued. She, for one, had reason to believe that what the tippling old scoundrel had said was literally true, that he had spoken all the truth. Her blood boiled when she read his appeal to Hugh Morice, and that gentleman's carefully formulated corroboration. The idea that serious consequences might ensue to Baker because of his candour was a frightful one.

It was not pleasant to be called as a witness against him; she felt very keenly the dumb eloquence of the appeal in the blood-shot eyes which were fixed upon her the whole time she was testifying, she observed with something more than amazement. She had a horrible feeling that he was deliberately endeavouring to fit a halter round the neck of the drink-sodden wretch who, he had the best reason for knowing, was innocent of the crime of which he was charged.

A brief encounter which took place between them, as they were leaving the court, filled her with a tumult of emotions which it was altogether beyond her power to a.n.a.lyse. He came out of the door as she was getting into her car. Immediately advancing to her side he addressed her without any sort of preamble.

"I congratulate you upon the clearness with which you gave your evidence, and on the touch of feminine sympathy which it betrayed for the prisoner. I fear, however, that that touch of sympathy may do him more harm than you probably intended."

There was something in the words themselves, and still more in the tone in which they were uttered, which sent the blood surging up into her face. She stared at him in genuine amazement.

"You speak to me like that?--you? Certainly you betrayed no touch of sympathy. I can exonerate you from the charge of injuring him by exhibiting anything of that kind."

"I was in rather a difficult position. Don't you think I was? Unluckily I was not at my ease, which apparently you were."

"I never saw anyone more at his ease than you seemed to be. I wondered how it was possible."

"Did you? Really? What a curious character yours is. And am I to take it that you were uneasy?"

"Uneasy? I--I loathed myself."

"Not actually? I can only a.s.sure you that you concealed the fact with admirable skill."

"And--I loathed you."

"Under the circ.u.mstances, that I don't wonder at at all. You would. I even go further. Please listen to me carefully, Miss Arnott, and read, as you very well can, the meaning which is between the lines. If a certain matter goes as, judging from present appearances, it very easily may go, I may have to take certain action which may cause you to regard me with even greater loathing than you are doing now. Do not mistake me on that point, I beg of you."

"If I understand you correctly, and I suppose I do, you are quite right in supposing that I shall regard you with feelings to which no mere words are capable of doing justice. I had not thought you were that kind of man."