“Only rolling a drunk,” he said lightly, as I told of what I had seen.
“No, it's worse than that,” I insisted. “There was murder done, and I'm afraid it's my friend.”
He listened more attentively as I told him how Henry had left the house just before the cry for help had risen.
The policeman took me by the shoulders, turned me to the gaslight, and looked in my face.
“Excuse me, sor,” he said. “I see you're not one of that kind. Some of 'em learns it from the blitherin' Chaneymen.”
I was mystified at the moment, but I found later that he suspected me of having had an opium dream. The house, I learned, was frequented by the “opium fiends,” as they figure in police slang.
“It's a nasty place,” he continued. “It's lucky I've got a light.” He brought up a dark lantern from his overcoat pocket, and stood in the shelter of the building as he lighted it. “There's not many as carries 'em,” he continued, “but they're mighty handy at times.”
We made our way to the point beneath the window, where the men had stood.
There was nothing to be seen—no sign of struggle, no shred of torn clothing, no drop of blood. Body, traces and all had disappeared.