"Did you know that other witnesses have sworn that the body is that of a gentleman called Philip de Mountford?"

"Yes, sir. I knew that."

"Then do you mean to a.s.sert that those other witnesses have sworn false oaths?"

"Oh, no, sir," rejoined James Baker with an apologetic smile of self-deprecation, "I wouldn't say such a thing, sir."

"Well, then?"

"They was mistaken, sir, that's all. Paul was that clever, sir; ask 'is mother there."

And once more the lean and grimy finger pointed to the seedy-looking matron who nodded a melancholy head, half in pride, half in regret.

"Clever, did you say?" asked the coroner, more briskly now. At last he held a thread in this extraordinary tangled skein. "Then do you mean to a.s.sert that your son--Paul Baker--went about the world calling himself Philip de Mountford?"

"That must 'ave been it, sir, I think."

"Deceiving people?"

"Aye! 'e was ever a bit o' no good."

"You think he imposed upon his lordship, the Earl of Radclyffe?"

"'E must 'ave done, sir, mustn't 'e now? seein' as 'ow 'is lordship must 'ave been took in."

"You helped him in the deception, I suppose?"

"Me, sir? Lor' bless ye no! Me an' 'is mother ain't clever enough for such things! We knew nothin' of Paul's doin's, and 'e allus went 'is own way, sir."

"But at least you knew that this fraud was going on?"

"Not exactly, sir."

"How do you mean 'not exactly?'" retorted the coroner sharply. "You seem to be unconscious of the fact that this story which you are telling the jury is a very serious matter indeed. If it is true, you are not only making a grave accusation against your dead son, but with this accusation you may be involving yourself or some other member of your family in an exceedingly serious charge of fraud, the penalty for which if proved would be very severe indeed. On the other hand if the story you tell is nothing but a c.o.c.k-and-bull tale, which further evidence would presently demolish, then you lay yourself open to a charge of perjury and of conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice. I have thought best to give you this word of warning--the last which you will get from me--because really you do not seem to be fully conscious of the extreme gravity of your position."

The bricklayer from Clapham had listened to this admonition, delivered with solemn emphasis and no small measure of severity, with a kind of stolid indifference. He retained his humble, apologetic att.i.tude, but clearly the coroner's threats did not affect his simple equanimity.

"I thank you, sir, kindly," he said when the coroner had ceased speaking, "but I can't 'elp it. Paul would go on 'is own way. Ask 'is mother there. 'E never would be spoken to, wouldn't Paul. And me and 'is mother allus said 'e'd come to mischief some day."

"Did you know anything at all of this fraud?"

"No, sir. We knew nothin' of it really. You see Paul left 'ome nearly two year ago come Christmas. 'E didn't tell us nothing."

"Then you last saw your son alive two years ago?"

"Yes, sir. That's the last me and 'is mother seed of 'im. Christmas Day, sir, 'twas two year ago nearly. Paul 'e said then 'e'd 'ad enough of knockin' about in London. 'E was goin' abroad, 'e was, that's what 'e said. And 'e left 'ome, sir, the next day. Bank 'oliday 'twere, and that's the last me and 'is mother seed of 'im."

He had told this with all the simple fatalism peculiar to his cla.s.s.

The son went "abroad," and "abroad" to a Clapham labourer is a very vague term indeed. It means so many things: geographically it means any place beyond a twelve-mile radius from home; the Antipodes are "abroad," but so is Yorkshire. Domestically it means that the traveller pa.s.ses out of the existence of those that are left behind as surely as if he had stepped into the grave. Financially, it means a mouth less to feed, seeing that the intending traveller is nearly always a wastrel at home. In any event the proposed journey "abroad"

is taken with quiet philosophy by family and friends. The traveller starts for "abroad" as easily, as simply, as he would for the nearest public house. He has no impedimenta, nothing to burden him or to cause him regret. Strangely enough, no one ever has any idea where the money comes from that pays for the journey "abroad." The traveller being a wastrel never has any himself, and the family is invariably too poor to provide it. But the wastrel goes, nevertheless.

And life within the narrowed precincts of the family circle goes on just as it had done before. Sometimes news comes from the traveller--a picture post-card from "abroad," usually a request for pecuniary a.s.sistance. Seldom does good news arrive; still more seldom does the traveller come back home.

But it is all very simple. Nothing to make a fuss about.

"Then," said the coroner, "he didn't tell you where he meant to go?"

"No, sir," replied Jim Baker, "he just was going abroad."

"Do you know where he went?"

"No, sir."

"Did you ever try to find out?"

"No, sir. Where 'ad been the use?"

Where indeed? The world is so large! and the Baker family so insignificant!

"He didn't write to you?"

"No, sir."

"Nor communicate with you in any way?"

"No, sir."

"You had no idea what had become of him?"

"Not until last summer, sir."

"What happened then?"

"His sister, sir, our Emily, she was out walkin' with Harry Smith--young Smith from next door to us, sir--and she was down in the West End o' London with 'im one day, and 'oo should they meet, sir, but Paul."

"Did they speak to him?"

"Yes, sir. They says, ''Ello, Paul, we didn't know as 'ow you was 'ome,' and 'e seemed upset like at first, and pretended 'e didn't know 'em, and that they'd made a mistake. But they chaffed 'im and went on talkin', so I suppose Paul 'e thought it best to make a clean breast of it all."

"Do you mean to say that he told his sister and his friend that he was carrying on a criminal fraud against the Earl of Radclyffe?"

"Oh, no, sir; not all that. 'E only told 'em that 'e was in for a good thing. A gentleman's gentleman 'e told 'em 'e was and doin' well for hisself. 'E said 'e would come and see the fam'ly--'e meant me and 'is mother, sir--some day soon. But 'e never come."

"Did he say where he was living?"

"Yes, sir. 'E gave 'is address to Emily. Up 'Ampstead way it were. A long way, sir. Me and 'is mother never seemed to 'ave the time to go and look 'im up; but Emily she went with young Smith one Sunday, but they never found the street, not where Paul said 'e was livin'. There weren't no such street in 'Ampstead, sir."

"And you never thought of making further inquiries?"