“This way, if you please. It would be idle to prolong this scene. The maid wants to seek repose. She has been kept up later than usual, in consequence of a few visitors we’ve had this evening. You will, therefore, please follow me.”
The two policemen obeyed. The master of the house closed the door of the bedroom, and, with a light in one hand and a sword in the other, he led the way into a room below.
“Now, gentlemen” (he emphasised this last expression), “since you have taken upon yourselves to enter my premises as trespassers—I cannot call you anything else—I do not desire to part with you without first of all seeing that you search every room in the house.”
The constables felt that they had made a great mistake; this fact they were forcibly impressed with, and they were seriously concerned at the issue.
“We don’t desire to search—” stammered out one.
“I insist!” interrupted the captain. “There is now an imperative necessity for your doing so, and, further than that, I insist as a satisfaction to all parties.”
The officers bowed. They were conducted by their guide into one room after the other. It is, perhaps, needless to say that everything was in the same order as when the occupants of the habitation had retired for the night.
Nothing was disturbed. There was not the faintest indication of any stranger or robber having entered the premises.
“You will, I’m sure, pardon us,” observed one of the policemen. “We feel now that we have been too precepitate; but I hope you will consider, sir, that the reason for our being so was a desire to further the ends of justice. Mistakes will occur with the best and most cautious constable. I trust you will accept our apology, and say no more about this error—for error it most assuredly is.”
The captain was choleric, impetuous, but he was not vindictive. His anger passed away, and he was the chivalrous, generous, high-minded officer whom his worst enemies acknowledged to be a gentleman.