‘That is the man,’ said Nadgett. ‘By the window!’
Three others came in, laid hands upon him, and secured him. It was so quickly done, that he had not lost sight of the informer’s face for an instant when his wrists were manacled together.
‘Murder,’ said Nadgett, looking round on the astonished group. ‘Let no one interfere.’
The sounding street repeated Murder; barbarous and dreadful Murder. Murder, Murder, Murder. Rolling on from house to house, and echoing from stone to stone, until the voices died away into the distant hum, which seemed to mutter the same word!
They all stood silent: listening, and gazing in each other’s faces, as the noise passed on.
Old Martin was the first to speak. ‘What terrible history is this?’ he demanded.
‘Ask him,’ said Nadgett. ‘You’re his friend, sir. He can tell you, if he will. He knows more of it than I do, though I know much.’
‘How do you know much?’
‘I have not been watching him so long for nothing,’ returned Nadgett. ‘I never watched a man so close as I have watched him.’
Another of the phantom forms of this terrific Truth! Another of the many shapes in which it started up about him, out of vacancy. This man, of all men in the world, a spy upon him; this man, changing his identity; casting off his shrinking, purblind, unobservant character, and springing up into a watchful enemy! The dead man might have come out of his grave, and not confounded and appalled him more.