"She would not look at the prisoner, and turned her head resolutely
towards the magistrate. I fancy she had been fond of that vagabond
husband of hers: an enormous wedding-ring encircled her finger, and
that, too, was swathed in black. She firmly believed that Kershaw's
murderer sat there in the dock, and she literally flaunted her grief
before him.

"I was indescribably sorry for her. As for Mueller, he was just fat,
oily, pompous, conscious of his own importance as a witness; his fat
fingers, covered with brass rings, gripped the two incriminating
letters, which he had identified. They were his passports, as it were,
to a delightful land of importance and notoriety. Sir Arthur Inglewood,
I think, disappointed him by stating that he had no questions to ask of
him. Mueller had been brimful of answers, ready with the most perfect
indictment, the most elaborate accusations against the bloated
millionaire who had decoyed his dear friend Kershaw, and murdered him in
Heaven knows what an out-of-the-way corner of the East End.

"After this, however, the excitement grew apace. Mueller had been
dismissed, and had retired from the court altogether, leading away Mrs.
Kershaw, who had completely broken down.

"Constable D 21 was giving evidence as to the arrest in the meanwhile.
The prisoner, he said, had seemed completely taken by surprise, not
understanding the cause or history of the accusation against him;
however, when put in full possession of the facts, and realizing, no
doubt, the absolute futility of any resistance, he had quietly enough
followed the constable into the cab. No one at the fashionable and
crowded Hotel Cecil had even suspected that anything unusual had
occurred.

"Then a gigantic sigh of expectancy came from every one of the
spectators. The 'fun' was about to begin. James Buckland, a porter at
Fenchurch Street railway station, had just sworn to tell all the truth,
etc. After all, it did not amount to much. He said that at six o'clock
in the afternoon of December the 10th, in the midst of one of the
densest fogs he ever remembers, the 5.5 from Tilbury steamed into the
station, being just about an hour late. He was on the arrival platform,
and was hailed by a passenger in a first-class carriage. He could see
very little of him beyond an enormous black fur coat and a travelling
cap of fur also.

"The passenger had a quantity of luggage, all marked F.S., and he
directed James Buckland to place it all up