"He's seen the bayonet and is prepared to swear to it," stated Osborne, elated.
"What of the picture of Spatola in the paper?" asked the investigator. "Does he recognize that?"
Osborne's face fell once more.
"These half-tones done through coarse screens are never any good," said he. "They'd make Gladstone look like Pontius Pilate. He's going to have a look at the man himself, and that'll settle it."
With that a turnkey was dispatched; and in a few moments he returned, accompanied by a half dozen prisoners; one was a slim, dark young man with a nervous, expressive look, and a great tangle of curling black hair. The face was haggard and drawn; the eyes were frightened; the whole manner of the man had a piteous appeal.
Osborne turned to Sime.
"Look them over carefully," directed he. "Take your time."
"I don't need to," answered the freckled shipping clerk. He pointed to the dark young man. "That's the man of the picture; but I never seen him before, anywhere."
Osborne put his fingers under his collar and pulled as though to breathe more freely; then he motioned another attendant to take the remaining prisoners away.
"I see," said he. "He was too foxy to buy the thing himself. He sent someone else." Then he fixed his eye on the prisoner and continued: "We've got the bayonet on you; so you might as well tell us all about it."