I was so staggered and nonplussed that I was in the street before I had time to ponder his reply. I was convinced then, as I am now, that the priest spoke the literal truth; how then had the letter been written? Certainly not by O’Doyle himself. Was it possible that a third person could have got at the information?
Back I went to the jail, and by rigid questioning discovered that at the time of O’Doyle’s death there was one other person, a delicate man of some education, in the hospital, who complained of pains in the head, and of having grown stone deaf since his incarceration. This man had been set at liberty shortly after, and made no secret of having malingered so successfully as to get all the luxuries of the hospital instead of the hard labour of the other prisoners. There was then an excited and prolonged conversation between this man and the priest I had visited; and as they were of the same faith I have little doubt but the father had bound him down in some way to keep secret what he had chanced to overhear of O’Doyle’s confession. This at least was my theory, and a peculiar flash of the priest’s eyes when I afterwards hinted at the discovery convinced me that I was not far off the truth.
Chisholm, for his bird-nesting experiment, got thirty days’ imprisonment, and Burge, after about a month’s detention, was discharged.
THE STREET PORTER’S SON.
The old street porter appeared at the Central Office one winter morning, but refused to reveal his business to any one but me. I had been delayed a little beyond my usual time by other work, but Corny Stephens patiently sat there the whole time. He appeared to know me, too, for the moment I entered the “reception-room” he rose and deferentially touched his forelock. He was an old man, very thin and bloodless, with poverty shining out of every bit of his meagre clothing and decayed boots. He wore at his lapel the polished badge of a licensed street porter, and over his shoulder had slung a hank of frayed rope, apparently as aged and weak as himself. It is not unlikely that I had seen him often before, but my interest is not so strong in honest folks, and, as he belonged to that healthy majority, I did not remember noticing him particularly. He was blue with cold, but the hand touching his forelock trembled violently, not so much with cold as strong excitement.
“It’s your help I want, sir,” he said, when I had tried to dispel the awe and dread with which he seemed to regard me, “and mebbe I can give you some news that’ll be of use to you; only I’m afeared I might get mixed up in it myself. I’ve been honest for sixty years now, and it would be mighty hard to be mistook for a thafe and a villain now.”
These words put me upon my guard, and while he was speaking them I was reading his face closely. Listening to the specious stories of rogues makes one suspicious of everything. He did not suffer under the ordeal, but I still made no sign, merely asking him to go on.
“Do you know a man called Micky Hill?” he abruptly resumed.
I started a little, for Micky had been in my thoughts more than once lately. I knew him, of course—a convict and ticket-of-leave man, who had already endured two long terms, and who knew me just as well as I did him, and never passed me without an impudent grin, as much as to say, “Your mighty smart arn’t you—why don’t you get hold of me?” Micky had small eyes set deep in his head, and every twinkle of them was full of cunning. I believe those eyes of his irritated me more than the man himself. I hated them from the depths of my soul.
“Yes,” I quietly answered, “what of him?”