The preliminary investigation before the magistrate calls for but little comment. The evidence was, with but few exceptions, that which had been given before the coroner on the Monday and Wednesday preceding. If it were remarkable for anything it was for the number of spectators in the Court. The building, in which the coroner’s inquiry had been conducted, had been crowded, but the police-court was packed, not with the poorly-clad spectators which one usually meets and associates with that miserable place, but by well-dressed and even aristocratic members of society. When Godfrey recovered from his first feeling of shame at finding himself in such a place and in such a position, and looked about him, he recognised several people whom he had once accounted his friends, but who had now schemed and contrived by every means in their power, to obtain permission to watch, what they thought would amount to his degradation and final extinction. Pulling himself together he gazed boldly around him, and more than one person there told himself or herself that a man who could look at one like that could never be guilty of such a crime as murder. Mr. Rolland, the counsel who had been retained by Codey for the defence, was a tall, handsome man, and of others, little above middle-age. He was the possessor of a bland, suave manner which had the faculty of extracting information from the most unwilling and reluctant witnesses. Near him sat Mr. Codey himself, keen-eyed and on the alert for anything that might tend to his client’s advantage. The curiosity of the visitors was not destined, however, to be gratified, for, when certain of the witnesses had been examined, the case was adjourned for a week, and Godfrey returned to Holloway by the way he had come.

How the next seven days passed Godfrey declares he is unable to tell, but at last that weary week came to an end, and once more he stood in the crowded Court. At first glance it looked, if such a thing were possible, as if more people had been squeezed into the building than on the previous occasion. The fashionable world was as well represented as before, while this time there were even more ladies present than had hitherto been the case. The cabman who had driven the pair to Burford Street was examined and repeated his former evidence. He was subjected to a severe cross-examination by Mr. Rolland, but his testimony remained unshaken. The police-constable, who had seen them together outside the house, also repeated his tale. He was quite certain, he assured the Court, that the woman in question was crying as he passed them. At the same time he was not sure whether or not the prisoner was speaking angrily to her. When he left the witness-box Victor Fensden took his place. He described the life in the studio before Godfrey left England, and repeated the story of the attempt he had made to induce him to break off his relations with the girl. When the prosecution had done with him Mr. Rolland took him in hand and inquired what reason he had for supposing that his client had ever felt any affection for the deceased woman.

“Because he himself told me so,” Fensden returned unblushingly. “I pointed out to him the absurdity of such a thing, and was at last successful in inducing him to accompany me abroad.”

“You parted where?”

“In Port Said. I went on to Palestine, while he returned to Naples.”

“En route to England?”

“I believe so.”

“On what day did you yourself reach London?”

“On the day of the murder.”

“When did you next see the prisoner?”

“He lunched with me at the Mahl Stick Club on the same day.”

“That will do,” said Mr. Rolland, somewhat to the surprise of the Court. “I have no further questions to ask you.”

It was at this point that the great sensation of the day occurred. When Fensden had taken his place once more, Detective-sergeant Gunson was called, and a tall, handsome man, with a short, brown beard entered the box. He stated that his name was Gunson, and that he was a member of the Scotland Yard detective force. Two days previous, accompanied by Detective-sergeant McVickers, he had paid a visit to the prisoner’s residence, Detwich Hall, in the county of Midlandshire. They had made a systematic search of the building, with the result that, hidden away behind a bookcase in the studio, they had discovered a long knife of Oriental workmanship and design. The blade was of razor-like sharpness, and was covered with certain dark stains. He found nothing else of an incriminating nature. Detective-sergeant McVickers was next called, who corroborated his companion’s evidence.

Dr. Bensford, an analytical chemist and lecturer at the Waterloo Hospital, stated that he was instructed by the Home Secretary to make an examination of the marks upon the knife in question, now produced, and had arrived at the conclusion that they were the stains of human blood. (Great sensation in Court.)

So overwhelming was the shock to Godfrey, that for a moment he neither heard nor saw anything. A ghastly faintness was stealing over him and the Court swam before his eyes. With a mighty effort, however, he pulled himself together and once more faced the Court. He looked at Sir Vivian and saw that the baronet’s face had suddenly become very pale.

“Good Heavens!” he thought to himself, “will he suspect me also?”

The analyst having left the box, Victor Fensden was recalled, and the knife handed to him. He took it in his daintily gloved hand and examined it carefully.

“Have you ever seen that knife before?” asked the prosecution.

Victor hesitated a moment before he replied.

“No,” he answered, as if with an effort.

“Think again,” said his examiner. “Remember that this is a court of justice, and it behooves you to speak the truth. Where did you see that knife before?”

Once more Victor hesitated. Then in a somewhat louder voice he said:

“In Egypt. In Cairo.”

“To whom does it belong?”

“To Mr. — I mean to the prisoner. I was with him when he purchased it.”

A greater sensation than ever was produced by this assertion. Godfrey leaned forward on the rail of the dock and scrutinized the witness calmly.

“Your Worship,” he said, addressing the magistrate, “with all due respect I should like to be allowed to say that I have never seen that knife in my life before.”

The prosecution having finished their case, Mr. Rolland addressed the Bench. He pointed out how entirely improbable it was that a gentleman of Mr. Henderson’s character and position would commit a murder of such a cowardly nature. He commented on the fact that it would have been impossible, had he even desired to do such a thing, for him to have committed the crime and have walked from Burford Street to his hotel in Piccadilly in the time counted from the moment he was seen by the police officer to the time of his arrival at his hotel. Moreover, he asked the magistrate to consider the question as to whether a man who had committed such a dastardly deed would have been likely to send the mutilated remains to himself as a wedding present. It was useless for him, however, to argue, the magistrate had already made up his mind, and Godfrey was therefore not surprised when he found himself committed to stand for his trial at the next Criminal Sessions, to be held in a month’s time. Bowing to the magistrate, he left the dock, entered the cab that was waiting for him in the yard, and was driven away to Holloway.

“It was the finding of that knife that did it,” said Mr. Codey reproachfully, when he next saw him. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me that it was hidden there?”

“Because I did not know it myself,” Godfrey replied. “When I told the magistrate that I had never seen it before, it was the truth. I did not buy a knife in Cairo, so how could I have brought one home with me?”

“But who could have placed it behind the bookcase, if you did not?” asked the lawyer.

“That is more than I can say,............