“I don’t know how much you think you’ve found out. You’ve got to prove it, mind. No confession counts to hang a man, unless there’s proof to back it.”
“Par exemple,” said the Baron, looking up, “a skeleton key, a coat button, a packet of letters, a false character, a falser impersonation, a proposed disinheritance, and, to end all, a confederate murdered, and the plot to hang an innocent man for the deed!—altogether a very pretty little list, my friend.”
Ridgway, to those who held him, seemed to stagger slightly. He stood gazing with haggard eyes into the face of this deadly jocular Nemesis, who, so utterly unsuspected by him, had all this time, it appeared, while he smiled and smiled, been silently weaving his toils about his feet. He had not a word to answer; but a sort of stupor of horror grew into his expression, as if for the first time a cold mortal fear were beginning to possess him. Then suddenly he stiffened erect, turned, and passed mutely out of the room.
The Chief Constable lingered behind a moment.
“Come, Calvin, old man,” he said: “pull yourself together. The thing’s over, and well over, thanks to your wonderful friend here—by George, as remarkable a shot, sir, as you are a strategist! I don’t know which I admired most, the way you stalked your quarry, or the way you brought him down.”
“Really quite simple little matters of deduction and sighting,” answered the Baron, beaming deprecation, “if you make a practice, as I do, of never loosening your bolt in either case till you’re sure of your aim.”
“Ha!” said the gentleman. “Well, I congratulate you, Calvin, and I congratulate us all, on this happy termination to a very distressing business. I hope now the order of release won’t be long in coming, and that your poor unfortunate lad will be restored to you before many hours have passed.”
A pallid, but wondering, face peered round the door.
“May I come in?” said Mr. Bickerdike.