“I don’t know,” the young man answered. “I believe there were a lot of diamonds in it, but I don’t know what amount, and I’ve not looked what’s there now.”
“Who would know about it?”
“I don’t suppose any one but Mr. Duke, now Mr. Gething’s dead. He’s the chief, the only partner I’ve ever seen.”
Constable Alcorn paused, evidently at a loss as to his next move. Finally, following precedent, he took a somewhat dog’s-eared notebook from his pocket, and with a stumpy pencil began to note the particulars he had gleaned.
“Gething, you say the dead man’s name was? What was his first name?”
“Charles.”
“Charles Gething, deceased,” the constable repeated presently, evidently reading his entry. “Yes. And his address?”
“12 Monkton Street, Fulham.”
“Twelve—Monkton—Street—Fulham. Yes. And your name is William Orchard?”
Slowly the tedious catechism proceeded. The two men formed a contrast. Alcorn calm and matter of fact, though breathing heavily from the effort of writing, was concerned only with making a satisfactory statement for his superior. His informant, on the other hand, was quivering with suppressed excitement, and acutely conscious of the silent and motionless form on the floor. Poor old Gething! A kindly old fellow, if ever there was one! It seemed a shame to let his body lie there in that shapeless heap, without showing even the respect of covering the injured head with a handkerchief. But the matter was out of his hands. The police would follow their own methods, and he, Orchard, could not interfere.