“Oh, my! good ’evins! what a horrid story!” exclaimed Mrs Winks; “when I was at home all that very night, bad with the tic, same as I am to-night, and no gentleman come here then, as I’ll take my oath on. And me abusin’ the tic all the while as was a blessin’ in disguise, for it’s glad enough I am to be at home this night, my dears. He never come anigh here that Chewsday night though.”
“Yes, he did now; so don’t you make no mistake. Come about a new dog-collar, he did, and took it away with him while you was up-stairs, Mother Winks.”
D. Wragg had spoken these words to the extreme delight of Screwby, who grinned and rubbed his hands down his sides upon hearing this voluntary corroboration of his evidence.
But the sergeant merely shook his head, feeling convinced that the lame gentleman who had jerked his body up-stairs was far too old a stager to commit himself by such an open statement unless he had good reason for so doing.
Meanwhile the master of the house looked on, while the police peered into all sorts of impossible places; passing over things that might perhaps have served as a clue, to stop to examine a scrap of paper or pieces of furniture that could not relate to the matter in hand. Walls were tapped, chimneys examined, cupboards peered into, and the light of bull’s-eye lanthorns was made to startle spiders in many a dark corner.
“This here wall’s hollow!” exclaimed one of the policemen suddenly, as he started upon finding a certain resonant echo to the blows he bestowed at one side of the room.
“Most likely,” said the sergeant, drily, “Why, where are your brains, man? Don’t you see that the staircase is behind?”
The man relieved himself of his hard hat, wiped his forehead, and then resumed his search, till the sergeant declaring himself satisfied so far, a move was made for the upper regions.
“There ain’t nothing up there; so now then,” cried D. Wragg, desperately; “I protest against all this here. You needn’t go up; and don’t you make no mistake; I ain’t agoin’ to stand having my place searched without a warrant. I’ll have it outer some on you for this.”
As he spoke, D. Wragg started to the foot of the attic staircase, and made as if he would have barred the way; but the sergeant laid one firm hand upon his shoulder, and D. Wragg seemed to shrink away from that touch like the leaves of a mimosa. He glided aside, as if in dread lest the hand that touched him should remain there, and his face grew ashy and careworn—abject too in the extreme—until he encountered the triumphant grins of Mr John Screwby, when he roused himself directly, and stared his tormentor full in the face.