The prosecution
had made a careful note of the circumstance that the man whom I
claimed to be--and actually was--had posed locally as some sort of
second-hand authority on Balkan affairs, and, in the midst of a
string of questions on indifferent topics, the examining counsel
asked me with a diabolical suddenness if I could tell the Court the
whereabouts of Novibazar. I felt the question to be a crucial one;
something told me that the answer was St. Petersburg or Baker
Street. I hesitated, looked helplessly round at the sea of tensely
expectant faces, pulled myself together, and chose Baker Street.
And then I knew that everything was lost. The prosecution had no
difficulty in demonstrating that an individual, even moderately
versed in the affairs of the Near East, could never have so
unceremoniously dislocated Novibazar from its accustomed corner of
the map. It was an answer which the Salvation Army captain might
conceivably have made--and I made it. The circumstantial evidence
connecting the Salvationist with the crime was overwhelmingly
convincing, and I had inextricably identified myself with the
Salvationist. And thus it comes to pass that in ten minutes' time I
shall be hanged by the neck until I am dead in expiation of the
murder of myself, which murder never took place, and of which, in
any case, I am innocent."
* * *
When the Chaplain returned to his quarters some fifteen minutes
later, the black flag was floating over the prison tower.
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