“I know where to find you now, which is far more convenient,” I quietly remarked. “You have admitted that you know something of the murder—I shall detain you on suspicion.”
“What! arrest me? an innocent man; lock me up in prison!” he exclaimed, in genuine terror. “You cannot—dare not! I know nothing of the murder; I merely think I can put you in the way of tracing the man who did it.”
“Do so, then, if you would prove your innocence,” I said, rather amused at his terror and dismay. “Were you an accomplice?”
“An accomplice! how can you ask such a question?” he tremblingly answered. “You are taking a mean advantage of me, for I feel sure that my secret is worth a hundred pounds at least. But I will trust to your honour, and put it all before you. People will give you all the credit. Everyone will say ‘McGovan is the man that can do it; we might have known he wouldn’t escape when McGovan was after him.’ Nobody will think of me, or hear of me, who have given you the clue. It’s the way of the world; one man toils, and ploughs, and sows, and another man reaps the harvest.”
“Ah, nothing pleases me so much as envy, flavoured with a little spitefulness,” I quietly returned. “It is the most flattering unction you can lay to a man’s soul.”
“I am not envious,” he dolefully replied, “but it is hard to supply another with brains.”
“Especially when he has none of his own,” I laughingly retorted. “Well, come along; bring on your brains—I’m waiting for them.”
“I really believe you are laughing at me in your sleeve,” he observed, with a half pathetic look. “It is brave to crush the poor worm under your heel when you know he can’t retaliate.”
“You’re a long worm—six feet at least,” I solemnly answered; “a long-winded one, too, unfortunately. I must leave you in the cells for an hour or two——”
“Oh, no! I will speak; I will tell you it all in half a minute,” he wildly answered. “The murderer is said to have been a sailor—a short, thick-set fellow, wearing a red neckerchief. I photographed such a man in the forenoon, and I have the first portrait, which didn’t please him, though it is like as life.”