“Did he own to you where he had hidden it?” she asked. And “Yes,” I could answer, perfectly truthfully.
By my advice, she prepared at once to go and fetch her sister-in-law to the hospital—with a friend, if she desired it—that all might witness to the details of the restitution.
In the meanwhile I myself paid a visit to the police station, and thence returned to my post to await the arrival of my company.
It came in about an hour: Miss Belmont, tearfully expectant; Mrs. John Belmont, shrill and incredulous; an immaculate tall gentleman, Captain Naylor by name, whose chin was propped on a very high collar, that he might perpetually sniff the incense of his own superiority; and, lastly, and officially to the occasion, B 90.
I lost no time in conducting them to the bedside of the patient. He had rallied wonderfully since our last encounter. He was sitting up against his pillow, his red hair fluffed out like the aureole of a dissipated angel, an expression on his face of a quite sanctimonious relish. I fancy he even winked at me.
“Now, Hurley,” I said gravely, “as one on the threshold of the grave” (which, nevertheless, I had my doubts about), “speak out and tell the truth.”
He cleared his throat, and started at once in a loud voice, as if repeating a lesson he had set himself—
“ ’Earing as ’ow my rash hact ’ave brought suspicion on a innercent lady, I ’ereby makes affirmation of the fac’s. I stole the button, and ’id it in my boot, where it is now.”
“No, it ain’t,” said B 90 suddenly. “Stow that.”
Mr. Hurley smiled pityingly.