The constables having arrived with the handcart, it was wheeled down the slip and all five men got round the crate and with some difficulty lifted it on.
“By Jove!” Mr. Morgan exclaimed. “That’s some weight. Surely there must be something more than a body in it?”
“It’s certainly heavy, but it’s a very solid crate. We shall see when we get it to the station.”
With a good deal of pushing and shoving the handcart was got up the slip, and the little party moved off along the mole and across the sidings to the town. On reaching the police station the crate was wheeled into a small courtyard in the rear, and Nield invited the others into his office.
“On second thoughts, Mr. Morgan,” he explained, “I’ll not unpack the crate until I have reported to the superintendent and got hold of a doctor. Meantime, sir, I’d be glad to get your statement in writing.”
For the third time Mr. Morgan told his story. The sergeant took it down, read over what he had written, and got the other to sign it.
“That will do, sir, for to-night. You will, of course, be required at the inquest to-morrow or next day.”
“I’ll be there, all right.”
“Then about your son, sir? Has he anything to say that might be of use?”
Mr. Morgan looked distressed.