By this time Raston, holding on to Marton's coat sleeve, had guided the detective back to his lodgings. The man was shivering with cold, for he had gone out without coat or hat. He hastily swallowed a glass of port, and began getting his things to go out. "You're not going into that fog again!" protested Raston. "You'll only get lost."
"Not under your capable guidance," laughed the detective. "You must guide me to the house of this Mr Pratt. I intend to arrest him."
"Arrest him!" echoed the curate, staring. "Dear me, what has he done?"
"Ask me what he hasn't done," said Marton, with a curl of his lip, "and I'll be better able to tell you. It's a long story, Raston, and time is passing; I want to go to the man's house. Is it far from here?"
"Some little distance," replied the curate, wondering at this haste. "I can find my way to it by guiding myself along the walls. But you can't arrest him, Marton, whatever he has done, unless you have a warrant."
"I accept all responsibility on that score," replied Marton, grimly. "The police have wanted Mr Angel, alias Pratt, for many a long day. Now the rascal knows that I am here, he will clear out of Colester in double quick time. I want to act promptly and take him by surprise. Now don't ask questions, my dear fellow, but take me to the house. I'll tell you all about this man later on. By the way, he is the individual who gave your church this celebrated cup?"
"Yes. I really hope there is nothing wrong."
"Everything is wrong. I expect the cup was stolen—"
"It is stolen—"
"Pshaw! I don't mean this time. Pratt stole it himself. I wonder he dare present his spoils to the Church. The fellow must have very little religion to think such an ill-gotten gift could be acceptable."