All these considerations flashed through my mind in the seconds of hesitation that passed before my reply to Policeman Corson's account.
“That was very kind of you. You didn't know what was in the letter then?”
“No, sor,” replied Corson with a touch of wounded pride. “It's not me as would open another man's letter, unless in the way of me duty.”
“Do you know Mother Borton?” I continued.
“Know her? know her?” returned Corson in a tone scornful of doubt on such a point. “Do I know the slickest crook in San Francisco? Ah, it's many a story I could tell you, Mr. Wilton, of the way that ould she-divil has slipped through our fingers when we thought our hands were on her throat. And it's many of her brood we have put safe in San Quentin.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said I dryly. “But the woman has done me a service—saved my life, I may say—and I'm willing to forget the bad in her.”
“That's not for me to say, sor; but there's quare things happens, no doubt.”
“This note,” I continued, “is written over her name. I don't know whether it came from her, or not; but if she sent it I must see her. It may be a case of life or death for me.”
“An' if it didn't come from her?” asked the policeman shrewdly.
“Then,” said I grimly, “it's likely to be a case of death if I venture alone.”