“Would it be legal to arrest him on a charge of larceny arising out of that crime, but subsequent to it?”
“Better take out a warrant.”
“Very well, procure me a warrant for the arrest of George Lightfoot, and send it on with the officer to the Agency.”
“You won’t tell me the charge?”
“No.”
“Well, sir, we must stretch a point for you. What time do you want them?”
“At six o’clock this evening, punctually. I undertake full responsibility for this course, you understand, Ingram? If anything, in any way, should miscarry, I am the one to blame.”
His manner had grown suddenly very grave and earnest. He left the Superintendent curious, but impressed against his will.
At six o’clock to the tick the detective arrived at the office, presenting the appearance of a stalwart, silent man, who knew how to keep his thoughts to himself. Gilead, after a few words of instruction, slipped an electric torch into his pocket (a precaution impressed upon him through his late experiences in the Empty House), locked up the place, and, descending to the hall, deposited the keys with the porter and issued with his companion into the street.
It was a shrill inclement evening. Bitter north-easterly winds had succeeded to the fogs of the week past, and the mud in the roads was long crumbled into an arid dust, which was swept up in clouds and blown in stormy veils above the house-tops. The pavements were as white as picked bones; the very flames of the lamps shivered in their little glass-houses; one took the stinging blasts headforemost, grinding them in palpable grit between one’s teeth, and, detesting all things and people, butted aggressive into struggling pedestrians, and gloried in the proverbial coldness of charity.