"How do you know?" says Belzebub.
"I have a way of knowing all such things," says the man. "As you may remember, I used to be a Crown witness in Ireland before I came here."
"This stone," says another man exactly like the last speaker, "this stone came a long way. It came as far as it could come. It didn't grow in this country or near it—the heat is too great. I know the sort of stone it is, because I used to be a Department expert in Ireland long ago. It grew in no other place than in Heav—I mean where the goo—I beg your pardon, I mean the—the—the place where people go who don't come here."
"It was Peter killed my child!" shouted Belzebub, as he switched his tail and blew clouds of brimstone smoke from his nostrils.
"Wait a moment," says another well-scorched man—a sleek-looking fellow with a rogue's eye and a hangdog appearance, "I know who the culprits are. I used to be a felon-setter in Ireland before my services were transferred here, and I ought to know. This is St. Patrick's Night. The Irish crowd up in the other place are always allowed to hold demonstrations on this night—a most illegal and seditious gathering it usually is, too—and it's their unruly conduct that has sent this missile flying down here. If you get into communication with the Freeman over the private wire, you'll find——"
"But it's in Peter's place they are," shouted Belzebub, "and Peter is responsible for their actions. Will you bear witness to it?"
"We will, certainly," they all shouted, "but to what?"
"To the fact that Peter is responsible for my son's death."
"We're ready to take twenty oaths on it."
"Is there any lawyer here who is willing to take up the case?" asked Belzebub.