The policemen looked at one another, in a state of indecision; then looked at our Reporter; then at Mr. Goldberry. They were evidently perplexed, the right being clearly on Antony Cowlrick’s side. Happily for them, their eyes fell simultaneously upon the crowd of idlers surrounding them, and, without more ado, they plunged wildly in, and scattered the curiosity-mongers in all directions. Having thus vindicated the majesty of the law, they moved reluctantly away, and left the victor, Antony Cowlrick, upon the field.
It happened that among the crowd was a woman who, taken unaware by the sudden onslaught of the police, was roughly dealt with. Unable to stem the rush of the dispersion, she was knocked about, and almost thrown down. Saved by a helping hand, she escaped without injury, but she was exhausted, and sat down upon a door-step to recover herself. There was nothing especially noticeable in this incident, but it will be presently seen that it has a singular bearing upon our narrative.
A group of three persons, comprising our Reporter, Mr. Goldberry, and Antony Cowlrick, standing together in Leicester Square, and a woman sitting on a doorstep—these are the individuals in whom we are at present interested. A policeman idles to and fro, at some distance, with his eyes occasionally turned towards the group, but he does not interfere.
It was noon, and, as usual, a strange quietude reigned in Leicester Square. This is its normal condition in the day-time, and is the more remarkable because of the contiguity of the Square to the most infamous thoroughfare in London—the Haymarket—wherein vice in its most shameless and degrading aspects openly parades itself for sixteen hours out of the twenty-four.
“Can I be of any assistance to you?” asked Mr. Goldberry, of Antony Cowlrick.
“No,” replied Antony Cowlrick, abruptly, and then, observing who it was that spoke, added: “Your pardon! You are the gentleman who defended me?” Mr. Goldberry nodded. “What was your motive?”
“Compassion.”
Antony Cowlrick cast his eyes upon his ragged clothes, and passed his hand over his face, upon which a two months’ beard was growing.
“I look a fit object of compassion. But I am not grateful to you. I should have been discharged, some time or other, without your assistance. There was no evidence, you see; and, after all, I may be guilty of the murder.”
“I do not think you are,” said Mr. Goldberry.