The Orange-Yellow Diamond by J.S. Fletcher

Author:J.S. Fletcher
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jovian Press

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WHAT MANNER OF DEATH?

One of the three companions who stood curiously gazing at the new witness as he came into full view of the court had seen him before. Lauriston, who, during his residence in Paddington, had wandered a good deal about Maida Vale and St. John’s Wood, instantly recognized Dr. Mirandolet as a man whom he had often met or passed in those excursions and about whom he had just as often wondered. He was a notable and somewhat queer figure—a tall, spare man, of striking presence and distinctive personality—the sort of man who would inevitably attract attention wherever he was, and at whom people would turn to look in the most crowded street. His aquiline features, almost cadaverous complexion, and flashing, deep-set eyes, were framed in a mass of raven-black hair which fell in masses over a loosely fitting, unstarched collar, kept in its place by a voluminous black silk cravat; his thin figure, all the sparer in appearance because of his broad shoulders and big head, was wrapped from head to foot in a mighty cloak, raven-black as his hair, from the neck of which depended a hood-like cape. Not a man in that court would have taken Dr. Mirandolet for anything but a foreigner, and for a foreigner who knew next to nothing of England and the English, and John Purdie, whose interest was now thoroughly aroused, was surprised as he heard the witness’s answer to the necessary preliminary questions.

Nicholas Mirandolet—British subject—born in Malta—educated in

England—a licentiate of the Royal College of Surgeons and of the Royal

College of Physicians—in private practice at Portsdown Road, Maida

Vale, for the last ten years.

“I believe you were called to the deceased by the last witness, Dr. Mirandolet?” asked the Coroner. “Just so! Will you tell us what you found?”

“I found the deceased lying on the pavement, about a dozen yards from my house,” answered Dr. Mirandolet, in a sharp, staccato voice. “A policeman was bending over him. Mr. Gardiner hurriedly told us what he had seen. My first thought was that the man was in what is commonly termed a fit—some form of epileptic seizure, you know. I hastily examined him—and found that my first impression was utterly wrong.”

“What did you think—then?” enquired the Coroner.

Dr. Mirandolet paused and began to drum the edge of the witness-box with the tips of his long, slender white fingers. He pursed his clean-shaven lips and looked meditatively around him—leisurely surveying the faces turned on him. Finally he glanced at the Coroner, and snapped out a reply.

“I do not know what I thought!”

The Coroner looked up from his notes—in surprise.

“You—don’t know what you thought?” he asked.

“No!” said Dr. Mirandolet. “I don’t. And I will tell you why. Because I realized—more quickly than it takes me to tell it—that here was something that was utterly beyond my comprehension!”

“Do you mean—beyond your skill?” suggested the Coroner.

“Skill?” retorted the witness, with a queer, twisting grimace. “Beyond my understanding! I am a quick observer—I saw within a few seconds

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