"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 ac-
