Arnold Westerham hitched up his gown as he turned to him.
"Your name is Pierre Picquet?"
Picquet made an elaborate bow.
"Pierre Jean Picquet, monsieur."
"And you are a Swiss?"
"But no, monsieur. I was born in Switzerland—at one time I live in Berne, zat is true. But my fazer and mozzer are French and I—I am French too. And now I live in Paris also."
"Will you tell us what you know of this case?"
"Me? I do not know anysing." Pierre Picquet spread out his hands. "All I am acquainted wiz is ze brown beard. I make it."
"You made the brown beard?" Arnold Westerham went on, amid a silence in which you might have heard a pin drop.
"Oui, monsieur, oui. I made it—I make two and sell them to a tall blond Englishman."
Westerham took up the brown beard ticketed Exhibit No. 6 from the table beside him, and handed it to an usher, who took it to the witness.
"Is this one of the brown beards you made?"
Pierre Picquet took the beard, examined it with care; then, as he looked up, his face was irradiated by a wide smile.
"Oui, monsieur, it is as I say. I make dis beard, I make anozer too, anozer just like it."
"And did you sell them at once?" Westerham pursued.
Picquet's smile widened if possible.
"I make zem, what you call, to order, monsieur, for ze tall Englishman. He want zem, he say, for a fancy ball, and he not want ze friends to know he is zere, so he buy my beard to disguise himself zat people not know him."
"Why did he buy two?"
Picquet was still turning his beard about.
"Do you not see, monsieur, zat he is only on a visit to Paris, zat he lives in London, and zat—perhaps, I do not know—he will lead ze gay life at home? And for zat my beards are convenable."
"Quite, quite," Arnold Westerham assented. "Now, Mr. Picquet, I want you to look round the court and see whether you recognize the tall, blond Englishman for whom you made the beards."
Pierre Picquet produced a pair of glasses and put them on.
"Me—I am not so young as I was," he observed apologetically. "My eyes, zey grow dim." He looked round, stared straight at Basil Wilton, then his eyes wandered round the crowded court. At last he looked back at Westerham. "I do not know. I am not quite sure. He wears a wig now like all ze ozzer gentlemen, like you do yourself, monsieur."
"A wig!" Westerham stared. This was the last thing he had expected to hear.
He asked Wilton to stand up, and as the prisoner obeyed the counsel looked at Picquet.
"Now take your time. Be quite sure, look well at that young man. Is he the tall Englishman who bought your beards?"
"But assuredly not, monsieur. Dis gentleman, he is not so old, not, I sink, so nice-looking as ze ozzer. But I will show you."
Before anyone in the court had realized what he was about to do he had bustled out of the witness-box and across to the dock, brown beard in hand.
"Zis is for zis gentleman much too big. See, it fastens here and here. You clip it so and so," twisting it about and fixing it on Wilton's face. "But it is big, much too big. Everybody see at once zat it is not growing, zat it is what you call mock. No, no, no! It was not made for zis gentleman. But now, now I do think I see ze gentleman. He sit dere." He pointed an accusing finger at the row of counsel not engaged in the case, but listening to it in the seats reserved for them in the front of the court. Conspicuous among them was Sir Felix Skrine. Picquet finally pointed directly at him.
"Zat—zat is ze man," he announced dramatically.
Sir Felix Skrine! A laugh, instantly suppressed, ran round the court. Sir Felix appeared to be absolutely unmoved. A faint smile curved his lips as he looked at Westerham. There he sat with his arms folded, gazing straight before him. Arnold Westerham shrugged his shoulders and moved his hand as if to brush the suggestion aside.
Mr. Justice Ruthven interposed.
"Witness, do I understand that you swear positively that the prisoner at the bar is not the man for whom you made the beard?"
Pierre Picquet turned himself about and bowed profoundly.
"Yes, my lord, it is so. I have never seen de young gentleman there"—pointing again to Basil Wilton—"I have never seen him before."
Nothing more was to be got out of Pierre Picquet, and Westerham signified that his examination was over.
The closing speech for the prosecution was little more than a recapitulation of the evidence that had been given. And the Attorney-General pointed out that, though Pierre Picquet positively swore that Basil Wilton was not the man for whom he made the beards originally, there was nothing to have prevented them from coming into Wilton's possession later through some other channel.
The judge's summing-up was a clear, masterly presentment of the case, brushing aside every irrelevance that had been imported into it, and pointing out to the jury that they were there to say whether the prisoner at the bar had murdered his wife or not and that no other issue must be confused with this. The beard, of which so much capital had been made by the defence, was not really of much importance in the case, since its only connexion with the murder lay in the few words written in the blotting-book and the beard found in the bag at the railway station, and there was no definite proof that either bag or beard was ever at the flat in Hawksview Mansions. It was a very fair, passionless summing up, but it made it plain that the weight of evidence was against the prisoner; and, when with a few solemn words about the gravity and importance of their task he dismissed the jury to consider their verdict, there were few people in court who did not feel that Basil Wilton's fate was sealed.
With a bow to the court Mr. Justice Ruthven retired to his room behind the Bench, the jury—ten men and two women—filed out of court, their faces showing that they were oppressed by the magnitude of the duty that lay before them.
The prisoner was taken to the cells beneath.
A momentary silence fell upon the spectators, and then they began to discuss the probable result of the trial, the general opinion being that Basil Wilton would be found guilty without any long delay. Therefore when the minutes passed into an hour, then into two, there was a general feeling of surprise. Once the jury sent to ask the judge a question about a point of law, and when it was answered resumed their deliberations. When at last they were heard returning it was realized that they had been absent nearly three hours.
The judge took his place, the prisoner was brought back, and the scene was set for the final act of the tragedy, when the foreman intimated to the judge that they had been unable to agree upon a verdict.
A deep, crimson flush stained the prisoner's face.
Mr. Justice Ruthven frowned heavily as he looked at the foreman.
"Do I understand that there is no chance of your agreeing?"
"None at all, my lord," the foreman answered decidedly.
The judge paused a moment.
"Is there any difficulty in which I can help you?"
"No, my lord, I am afraid not." The foreman paused a moment, then he said: "We are five for acquitting the prisoner, and seven against. There appears to be no possibility whatever of either side giving way."
The judge raised his eyebrows as he directed the prisoner to be taken back to the cells, and made an order for a new trial.