“Some rogues are and some are not,” said Mr. Inkerman, when the laugh had subsided. “I dare say it would take a pot of money to buy a Herod, and still more to buy a Pilate,” and then again there was a ripple of laughter.
At that moment the servant came in bringing a printed card upon the salver. The card had a semibusiness-like, semisocial look. He handed it to the bishop, who glanced at it. “Oh,” he said, “here he is. Show him up directly.”
He handed the card to Dr. Dayton, who ran his eye over it. “It’s Inspector Dolan,” he said to the others.
In a little while the servant returned, holding open the door and ushering in the two men. The light shone upon the inspector’s uniform, gleaming upon the badge on his breast. He came directly into the room followed by a rather small, rather thin man, with a lean face and reddish hair and beard, and a long, lean neck. The man seemed abashed and ill at ease in the presence of the clergymen. He stood in the farther part of the room, not far from the door. He held his hat in his hand, shifting it and turning it around and around. He was ill clad and rough looking, but his face was rather cunning than stupid. It was not altogether a bad face. His eyes wandered about the room, resting an instant upon each unusual object. There was a large photogravure in colors of Renault’s “Execution in Tangier.” That caught his eye, and his gaze lingered upon it for a moment–the severed head, the prone corpse lying upon the steps, the huge figure of the executioner looming above it, and the splashes of blood trickling over the white marble. He looked at the picture for an instant, and then he looked at the bishop; then he looked back at the picture again.
Bishop Caiaphas was gazing steadily at him. “Well, my man,” he said, at last, “Inspector Dolan tells me that you are willing to help us arrest this Man.” The man’s gaze dropped from the picture to the bishop’s face. He did not reply, but he began again turning his hat around and around in his hands. “What do you know about Him?” the bishop continued.
“Why,” said the man, “I know Him–that is, I’ve been with Him, off and on–that is, near for a year, I reckon.”
“What makes you willing to betray Him?” asked the bishop, curiously. “Have you any cause of enmity against Him?”
The man looked at him with a half-bewildered look, as though not exactly understanding the purport of the question. Then a secondary look of intelligence came into his face. “Oh,” he said, “do you mean have I anything agin Him? Why, no; so far as that goes I haven’t anything agin Him, nor He hasn’t done anything agin me. There was a lot of us together–a kind of company, you know–and I always carried the money for the rest. Sometimes we had a little money, and then sometimes we hadn’t. I was with Him ever since last April a year ago up to last fall, when my father was took sick; and there ain’t nothing in it. He won’t take money Hisself for curing folks, and He wouldn’t let any of us take money.”
“And are you willing to show us where we may find Him?” asked the bishop.
“Why, yes,” said the other; “so far as that goes, I’m willing to do that if I’m paid for it. I haven’t got nothing agin Him, but I don’t owe Him nothing, neither.”