“Now then,” says Policeman X, of the prostrate man, caught in the toils, “will you come quietly?”
Expectancy reigned in the hearts of the constables. We do not wish to be harsh in our judgment of them, when we say that, as a rule, they prefer a slight resistance on the part of a prisoner. To some extent it enhances the value of their services, and the extra exertion necessary in the conveying of their man to the lock-up, shows that they are doing something for their insufficient stipend. For our own part, we see much enjoyment in a policeman’s life, and were we not tied to the editorial 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 before his face in protection, and to ask faintly,
“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.