“You’re a fool!” said the sergeant, looking at the hack of the watch. “This is a watch that belonged to the murdered man. It has a crown over a crest, and arms with supporters.”
“Of course,” said Harold. “I forgot that it was my father’s watch before he gave it to me.” The sergeant smiled. The constable and the two bill-hook men guffawed.
“Give me the watch,” said Harold.
The sergeant slipped it into his own pocket.
“You’ve put a rope round your neck this minute,” said he. “Handcuffs, Jonas.”
The constable opened the small leathern pouch on his belt. Harold’s hands instinctively clenched. The sergeant once more whipped his revolver out of its case.
“It has never occurred before this minute,” said the constable.
“What do you mean? Where’s the handcuffs?” cried the sergeant.
“Never before,” said the constable, “I took them out to clean them with sandpaper, sergeant—emery and oil’s recommended, but give me sandpaper—not too fine but just fine enough. Is there any man in the county that can show as bright a pair of handcuffs as myself, sergeant? You know.”
“Show them now,” said the sergeant.