His theory had been vindicated. During the night which had followed Inspector Hanslet’s first visit to him, he had racked his brains in the endeavour to recall the circumstances under which he had first heard the name of Copperdock. And then, at last, just before dawn, the scene had come back to him. The gloomy court at the Old Bailey, the voices of counsel, the set tense face of the prisoner in the dock. And finally, the scene when the jurymen, under his direction, had discussed the verdict which was to decide the man’s fate. Yes, he remembered the name of the little man who had seemed to share his own merciful views. Copperdock, that was it. The names of the others he did not remember, but they had seemed to be inspired with a stolid commonsense virtue. One of them had implied that if doctors thought they could get away with this sort of thing, there was no knowing what they would be up to. They were a lot of butchers as it was, always cutting people up to find out what was the matter with them.