"What is it, Toffy?" said the Vicar.
"We've got 'em at last, I think," said Mr. Toffy, in a very low, soft voice.
"Got whom;—the murderers?"
"Just so, Mr. Fenwick; all except Sam Brattle,—whom we want."
"And who are the men?"
"Them as we supposed all along,—Jack Burrows, as they call the Grinder, and Lawrence Acorn as was along with him. He's a Birmingham chap, is Acorn. He's know'd very well at Birmingham. And then, Mr. Fenwick, there's Sam. That's all as seems to have been in it. We shall want Sam, Mr. Fenwick."
"You don't mean to tell me that he was one of the murderers?"
"We shall want him, Mr. Fenwick."
"Where did you find the other men?"
"They did get as far as San Francisco,—did the others. They haven't had a bad game of it,—have they, Mr. Fenwick? They've had more than seven months of a run. It was the 31st of August as Mr. Trumbull was murdered, and here's the 15th of April, Mr. Fenwick. There ain't a many runs as long as that. You'll have Sam Brattle for us all right, no doubt, Mr. Fenwick?" The Vicar told the constable that he would see to it, and get Sam Brattle to come forward as soon as he could. "I told you all through, Mr. Fenwick, as Sam was one of them as was in it, but you wouldn't believe me."