There was a queer pause, and then I said—
“My name’s McGovan, and I want you to go with me as far as the Police Office, about that affair on the Calton Hill.”
A wonderful change took place in his face the moment I uttered the words—a change which, but for the grave nature of the case, would have been actually comical; his “potty” white cheeks became red, and his red snub-nose as suddenly became white.
“Well, do you know, that’s curious!” he at length gasped; “but I was just coming up to the Office now, in case I should be suspected of having a hand in it. I had a quarrel with Anderson, and said some strong things, I’ve no doubt, in my passion, but of course I never meant them.”
I listened in silence; but my mental comment, I remember, was, “A very likely story!”
“I was coming up to say what I can prove—that I was at the other end of the town that night, and home and in my bed by a quarter to eleven,” he desperately added, rightly interpreting my silence.
I became more interested at the mention of the exact hour; for I had ascertained beyond doubt that Anderson had not left the public-house and parted with his friend till eleven o’clock struck. He had, in fact, been “warned out,” along with a number of bar-loafers, at shutting-up time.
“Did any one see you at home at that hour?” I asked, after cautioning him.
“Yes, the wife and bairns.”
“Imphm.”