"Now, then, here's a lawyer for you," said Chisholm. "Mr. Lindsey, solicitor."
"Well, my man!" began Mr. Lindsey, taking a careful look at this queer client. "What have you got to say to me?"
The prisoner gave Chisholm a disapproving look.
"Not going to say a word before the likes of him!" he growled. "I know my rights, guv'nor! What I say, I'll say private to you."
"Better leave us, sergeant," said Mr. Lindsey. He waited till Chisholm, a bit unwilling, had left the cell and closed the door, and then he turned to the man. "Now, then," he continued, "you know what they charge you with? You've been drinking hard—are you sober enough to talk sense? Very well, then—what's this you want me for?"
"To defend me, of course!" growled the prisoner. He twisted a hand round to the back of his trousers as if to find something. "I've money of my own—a bit put away in a belt," he said; "I'll pay you."
"Never mind that now," answered Mr. Lindsey. "Who are you?—and what do you want to say?"
"Name of John Carter," replied the man. "General labourer—navvy work—anything of that sort. On tramp—seeking a job. Came here, going north, night before last. And—no more to do with the murder of yon man than you have!"
"They found his purse on you, anyway," remarked Mr. Lindsey bluntly.
"What have you got to say to that?"
"What I say is that I'm a damned fool!" answered Carter surlily. "It's all against me, I know, but I'll tell you—you can tell lawyers anything. Who's that young fellow?" he demanded suddenly, glaring at me. "I'm not going to talk before no detectives."