Ah, well, he was sorry for that, but he was still anxious to help us—virtuous Benjie!—and would not mind doing a good action for once.
“You know Pat Corkling? Pauley, they call him,” he continued.
“Why! is he the man?” I cried in surprise. “I had a letter accusing Bain, the policeman on the beat, of the crime, and I strongly suspect, Benjie, that that letter came from you.”
Oh, no, it was quite a mistake. Benjie protested strongly—a trifle too strongly—that he had never written such a letter in his life; and I immediately concluded that he had written that letter, but was puzzled to think why he should now come to me accusing Pauley.
“How do you know that Pauley did the job?” I asked, when Benjie had done protesting.
“I didn’t say he did, and I’m not going to say it. I’m not to appear as a witness in the case at all, mind—that must be the agreement, or I tell nothing.”
“All right; I agree to that; go ahead with your story—I daresay it’s a lie from beginning to end, so it doesn’t matter much.”
Benjie smiled delightedly at the compliment, and proceeded—
“When I got out of quod and heerd of the thing—which had been done when I was in—I had a idee that the peg was the man that did it, just like the man, whoever he was, that wrote to you,” demurely observed Benjie. “Pegs is an awful bad lot—except you, of course—oh, honour bright, except you,” he added, catching himself up barely in time. “But then I found out that Pauley had been flush of money for near a week, and I took to watching him. I didn’t get much out of him, for he’s fly, I tell you.”
“That’s a great compliment from you, Benjie—what a pity he can’t hear it,” I remarked.