The man looked at them slowly, in detail, as though to fix their faces in his memory, and then, opening his lips, smiled, but did not speak. Nothing more exasperating could well have been imagined than the strange smile of this wretched man—a smile which seemed to say, “You will learn nothing from me.” It was late in the night, but a crowd had[80] already assembled, and the whisper went round that the murderer of the man who was found so cruelly murdered in No. 119, Great Porter Square, had been caught. Short shrift would have been his, even in this law-loving city, if the excited knot of persons could have had their way; but it was the duty of the constables to protect their prisoner. [80] “Will you come quietly?” they asked of him. “Why not?” he asked in return. “I shall be the gainer.” So, carefully guarded and held as in a vice, the man walked to the police-court with his captors, followed by the crowd. It was almost a gala night, and the persons who hung at the heels of the supposed murderer and his captors were vehement in speech and florid in action as they explained to every new-comer the cause of the gathering. “What is the charge?” asked the inspector. Who should answer but the prisoner himself? Strange fancy of his to take the words from the tongues of his accusers—to steal, as it were, the very bread from their mouths! [81] [81] “Murder,” he cried, with a bitter laugh. An almost imperceptible quiver agitated the eyelids of the inspector, but it was in a quiet voice he repeated “Murder!” and held his pen suspended over the book in which the charges were set down. “No. 119, Great Porter Square,” added Policeman X, not willing to be robbed of every one of his perquisites. The inspector’s agitation was now more clearly exhibited. The murder was a notable one—all London was ringing with it. His eyes wandered slowly over the prisoner’s form. The man’s clothes were ragged, mudded, and shabby, but were without a patch; his
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