If Dr. Bonaday was an authority on lichens and mosses, Constable Ward was an authority on nothing at all, even in his own house, where his youngest grand-daughter attended to his wants. Amid a population which seldom broke the law and never resisted it, he had sunk of late years into a peaceful decay of all his faculties. He carried his emblem of office, a small mace, attached to his wrist by a string, and his hand shook pitiably as he fumbled for it, but less with excitement than from shock at having been aroused and dragged from his bed into the night air.
"I see no reason for taking the constable with us," the Commandant decided, after a compassionate glance at the old man.
"In case of an arrest—" began Mr. Pope.
"First let us be certain that a crime has been committed."
"To my thinking, all the circumstances point to murder, and to nothing else."
"And, if they do, we can accuse no one until we have found the body.... Constable, you can go back to bed."
"I thank you, sir." Constable Ward, for the instant plainly relieved, checked himself, and stood trembling, irresolute. "You mustn't think, gentlemen, that I'd shirk doing my duty."
"No, no, Ward: I quite understand," the Commandant assured him.
"The Governor," said Mr. Pope, slipping back to the old form of address, disused for years—"The Governor rather doubts that you are equal to it."
"For God's sake, gentlemen, don't put it in that way! This affair'll get into the newspapers, over on the main, and if 'tis said that Constable Ward was too old for his duty, whatever'll become of me?"