The detective, still holding the revolver in one hand, walked up to him and looked him full in the face.
‘George Heritage,’ he said, ‘I arrest you as an escaped convict.’
‘I am not George Heritage,’ said the man in a low voice.
‘You’re not George Heritage, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Well, I’ll take you on spec. If you’re not the man, What did you hide under that bed for, and what are you doing in Mrs. Smith’s room, eh?’
‘I don’t know,’ answered the man huskily.
‘Ah, but I do,’ exclaimed the detective, suddenly seizing the trembling wretch. ‘Come, let’s slip the bracelets on’ In the struggle, the long coat was torn aside. ‘Ah, you’re not the man, aren’t you? That’s good! I thought I should bowl you out.’
There could be no doubt that this was the right man. Underneath the long coat he wore the prison garb of the convict.
He went quietly enough then. The police kept the door while he was put into a cab, and then they jumped in too, and off went the party to the police station.
The scene in the little parlour was heartrending.
Bess lay in a dead faint on the sofa, Mrs. Jarvis slapping her hands and bathing her face to bring her to, and Shakspeare, white as death, crying in a corner.