My immediate task was to have the drain explored, but that was all labour thrown away. The rush of water had been too strong, and the chain was gone, buried in mud and slime, or carried away to sea. I soon had abundant evidence that Chisholm had been on the spree for a fortnight about the time stated by Burge, but my intention of weaving a complete web round him was stayed by a message from himself, asking to see me that he might tell all he knew of the watch and chain. He did not know that I had failed to get the chain, or he might have risked absolute silence.
“Ye ken, I’m a bit of a fancier of birds,” he said, in beginning his story.
“Including watches and chains,” I interposed.
“I was oot very early ae Sunday morning, for however late I’m up on a Saturday, I can never sleep on Sunday morning,” he continued, with a dutiful grin at my remark. “I gaed doon by the Abbey Hill to the Easter Road, and when I was hauf way to Leith I saw a yellow finch flee oot at a dyke where its nest was, and begin flichering along on the grund to draw me away frae the place. Cunnin’ brutes them birds, but I was fly for it, and instead o’ following it, and believing it couldna flee, I stoppit and begoud to look for the nest in the dyke. But before I got forrit I had kind o’ lost the exact place. I searched aboot, wi’ the bird watchin’ me geyan feared-like a wee bit off, and at last I found a hole half filled up wi’ a loose stane. Oot cam’ the stane, and in gaed my haund; but instead o’ a nest I fund a gold watch and chain; and that’s the God’s truth, though I should dee this meenit.”
“Did you mention the finding to any one?”
“No me; I didna even tell my daughter, for I kent if it was fund oot I might get thirty days for keeping it up. I had an idea that the watch had been stolen and planted there, or I might have gaen to a pawnshop wi’ it. It was kind o’ damaged wi’ lying in the dyke, so at last I made up a story and sellt it to Maister Burge.”
“You are good at making up stories, I think?” I reflectively observed.
“I’m thinkin’ there’s a pair of us, Maister McGovan,” he readily returned, with a pawky dab at my ribs.
But for his coolness and evident relief at getting the thing off his mind, I should have set down the whole as another fabrication. But when a man begins to smile and joke, it may be taken for granted that he does not think himself in immediate danger of being hanged. His story, however, might have availed him but little had I not chanced to turn up my notes on the case at its earlier stages, and found there the hitherto meaningless words muttered by Daniel O’Doyle. “Starr Road” muttered in sleep might be but a contraction of Easter Road, or be those actual words imperfectly overheard. Then there were the words about something being “hidden safely there,” and the whole tallied so closely that I was at last sure that I was on the right track. These additional gleanings made me revert to my anonymous correspondent in the west. It was scarcely likely that I should be able to trace him; but he spoke in his note of the guilty one being a person or persons outside of himself—known to him. This lessened my interest in him personally, but made me think that if I visited the town I might get hold of O’Doyle himself, which would be quite as good, if not better. I accordingly went to the place, in which there is a public prison, and as a first step called on the police superintendent. An examination of the books at length sent me in the direction of the prison, in which a man answering the description, and having O’Doyle for one of his names, had been confined on a nine months’ sentence for robbery. I was now in high spirits, and quite sure that in the prisoner I should recognise the O’Doyle I wanted; but on reaching the place I found that a more imperative and inexorable officer had been there before me in shape of death. Immediately on getting the answer I made the inquiry, “Did he make any statement or confession before he died?” This was not easily answered, and before it could be, with satisfaction, a number of the officials had to be questioned, and then I found that O’Doyle had been attended, as is usual, in his last moments by a Catholic priest.
This gentleman was still in the town, though not stationed in the Prison, and knowing something of the vows of a priest, I despaired at once of extracting anything from him, but became possessed of a desire to have a look at his handwriting. Accordingly I sent him a polite note requesting him to send me word when he would be at liberty to see me for a few minutes’ conversation. I fully expected to get a written note in reply, however short, but instead I got a message delivered by the servant girl, to the effect that her master was at home, and would see me now. I grinned and bore it, though it is not pleasant to feel eclipsed in cunning by anyone. I went with the girl, and found the priest, a pale, hard-worked looking man, leaning back in his chair exhausted and silent, and certainly looking as if he at least did not eat the bread of idleness. I felt rather small as I introduced myself and ran over the case that had brought me there, he listening to the whole with closed eyes, and a face as immovable as that of a statue. When I had finished there was an awkward pause. I had not exactly asked anything, but it was implied in my sudden pull up, but for a full minute there was no response.