desk, we would joyfully exchange the quill for the rattle.

“Will you come quietly?” demands Policeman X.

Antony Cowlrick is too exhausted to reply, and accepting his silence as a challenge, his pursuers gave him no grace. They haul him to his feet, and proceed to deal with him in their usual humane fashion. This causes faint murmurs of remonstrance to proceed from him, and causes him, also, to hold his arms[78] before his face in protection, and to ask faintly,

[78]

“What have I done?”

“Ah!” say the four policemen, with a look of enquiry at him whose rattle summoned them to the battlefield.

The proud official—it is in truth a proud moment for him—utters but two words; but they are sufficient to animate the policemen’s breasts with excess of ardour.

“The murderer!” he whispers.

The murderer! Had he spoken for an hour he could not have produced a more thrilling effect; and be sure that he was as conscious of the value of this dramatic point as the most skilful actor on our stage. A light was instantly thrown upon the drama of the crime, and the unfortunate man, in their eyes, was damned beyond hope of redemption. The murderer! Blood swam before their eyes. Delightful moments!

But the ears of the prisoner had caught the words.

“What!” he screamed, making a violent[79] attempt to wrench himself from the grasp of his captors. Poor fool! He was one to five, and was soon reduced to physical submission. The rough usage he received in the course of the struggle appeared to tame him inwardly as well as outwardly; when he spoke again his voice was calmer.

[79]

“Do you accuse me of the murder of that man?” he asked, turning his face towards 119, Great Porter Square.

He was most surely condemning himself.

“Yon know best whether you did it,” observed Policeman X.

“Yes,” he replied, “I know best.”

“What were you doing there?” was the next enquiry.

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