“I saw some queer-looking people leaving as I came in,” said Sir Walter Carey. “I suppose they were your witnesses. But why do they turn up here at this time of night?”
Morton smiled grimly. “They come here by night because they would be dead men if they came here by day. They are criminals committing a crime that is more horrible here than theft or murder.”
“What crime do you mean?” asked the other, with some curiosity.
“They are helping the law,” said Morton.
There was a silence, and Sir Walter considered the papers before him with an abstracted eye. At last he spoke.
“Quite so; but look here, if the local feeling is as lively as that there are a good many points to consider. I believe the new Act will enable me to collar him now if I think it best. But is it best? A serious rising would do us no good in Parliament, and the government has enemies in England as well as Ireland. It won’t do if I have done what looks a little like sharp practice, and then only raised a revolution.”
“It’s all the other way,” said the man called Wilson, rather quickly. “There won’t be half so much of a revolution if you arrest him as there will if you leave him loose for three days longer. But, anyhow, there can’t be anything nowadays that the proper police can’t manage.”
“Mr. Wilson is a Londoner,” said the Irish detective, with a smile.
“Yes, I’m a cockney, all right,” replied Wilson, “and I think I’m all the better for that. Especially at this job, oddly enough.”
Sir Walter seemed slightly amused at the pertinacity of the third officer, and perhaps even more amused at the slight accent with which he spoke, which rendered rather needless his boast about his origin.