“What is your name?” Mr. Bales asked.
“William Smith’s my own name; Digby Martin was my professional name before I came down to being a porter,” said the man.
“Come, you answered that question quickly enough; now why can’t you tell me with the same rapidity whether you got gold for that cheque at the bank or notes?”
“I forget,” said the porter, sulkily.
“No, you don’t. Now come, Mr. Smith, you changed the gold for notes yourself; you can’t deceive me. Now where did you get the notes?”
The porter made no reply, but turning upon his heel to leave the room, he said he did not know what the gentleman meant.
“Then I’ll tell you, my friend,” said Bales. “I arrest you, William Smith, on the charge of being concerned in the murder of one Richard Tallant.”
We need hardly say that the music-hall gentlemen were not a little surprised at this striking dénoûment; their astonishment was much greater than the porter’s.
“Oh!” said the porter, when the detective produced those same “bracelets” which had frightened poor Dibble. “You’ve got the wrong ’un, guvner; but suppose I put you on the right track?”
“You had better be careful,” said Bales: “anything that you may say now can be used in evidence against you.”