The Irishman glanced behind him. Then he dropped his voice a little.
"Look here, guv'nor," he said, "I've some idea, if it pans out. You've heard of the Heste case?"
"You mean the girl who was murdered?"
"Yes! Well, the chap that did it is within a few feet of where we're sitting."
Fischer took off his spectacles and rubbed them. In the dim light his face looked more grim and powerful than ever.
"Isn't that a little dangerous?" he observed. "The police mean having him."
"You're dead right," the Irishman replied. "They've got to have him, and he knows it. They'd keep their hands off any one in these parts if they could, but this bloke's different. He done it too thick, and he's got the public squealing. Now if we could get him out for long enough, he's the man for your job. Come right along, boss."
He rose heavily to his feet, crossed the room, and threw open the door of what was little more than a cupboard at the further end. The place was in darkness, but a human form sprang suddenly upright. His white face and glaring eyes were the only visible objects in a shroud of darkness.
"That's all right, kid," the Irishman said soothingly. "No cops yet.
This is a gentleman on business. Wait till I fix a light."
He stepped back, and brought a candle from the table at which he had been seated. Fischer helped him light it, and by degrees the interior of the little apartment was illuminated. Its contents were almost negligible—there was simply a foul piece of rug in the corner, and a broken chair. With his back to the wall crouched a slim, apparently young man, with a perfectly bloodless face and black eyes under which were blue lines. His clothes were torn and covered with dust, as though he had dragged himself about the floor, and one of his hands was bleeding.