pped the Bible when it was handed to him, and no one
could really hear the oath which he repeated mechanically at the
usher's bidding.

At last he mustered up a sufficient amount of courage to state his
name and address.

"James Baker," he said in answer to the coroner's question.
"Bricklayer by trade."

"And where do you live?"

"At 147 Clapham Junction Road, sir," replied the man, scarcely above a
whisper.

"Speak up, please," admonished the coroner, "the jury can't hear you.
You came here, I understand, prepared to make a statement?"

"Yes, sir."

"Of what nature?"

The man shifted his position from one leg to the other. Heavy beads of
perspiration stood out on his pallid forehead.

"Go on, Jim; don't be afeeard," came from the body of the court.

"Silence there!" commanded the usher.

"I wished to say, sir," resumed the man, trying to steady his voice,
"that the deceased whom I saw lying in the coffin yonder is my own
son, Paul Baker, sir."

"Your son!"

"My son, sir," asserted the man somewhat more steadily, "my son, and
'is mother's, as is sitting over there. My son, Paul Baker, as left
'ome two year ago come next Christmas. We all come 'ere, sir, to-day,
me and 'is mother and sister an' Smith an' Jane--we all come 'ere to
swear to 'im."

"Your son!"

The exclamation once more came from the coroner, but had any one else
dared, that exclamation would have been echoed and reechoed by every
mouth in the court room, coupled with emphatic ejaculations of
incredulity.

It was as if in a new castle of some grim, sleeping monster a magic
wand had touched every somnolent spirit. Smelling salts and scented
handkerchiefs were forgotten: the jurymen leaned forward half across
the table, oblivious of their own dignity, in their endeavour to
obtain a fuller view of this wielder of the magic wand: the
beetle-like creature with the sad eyes and pale, hollow cheeks. Even
the reporters--accustomed to sensational events--gave up scribbling in
order to stare open-mouthed at the shabby figure standing by the
table.

At first, of course, the predominant sensation was one of sweeping
incredulity. Coroner and jury had met here to-day in this stuffy room
in order to conduct an inquiry on the death of Philip de Mountford,
heir presumptive to the earldom of Radclyffe. The crowd of fashionable
and idle gapers had pushed and jostled in order to hear the ugly story
of how wealth and position are fought for and intrigu