As they there stand for a minute under the lamp, Mr. Longcluse, gazing at him sternly from the stair, caught his eye. Old David Arden stepped back a little, growing pale, with a sudden frown.
“Oh! Mr. Arden?” says Longcluse, advancing as if he had come in search of him.
“That's enough, Sir,” cries Mr. Arden, extending his hand peremptorily toward him; and he adds, with a glance at the constables, “There's the man. That is Walter Longcluse.”
Longcluse glances over his shoulder, and then grimly at the group before him, and gathered himself as if for a struggle; the next moment he walks forward frankly, and asks, “What is the meaning of all this?”
“A warrant, Sir,” answers the foremost policeman, clutching him by the collar.
“No use, Sir, making a row,” expostulates the next, also catching him by the collar and arm.
“Mr. Arden, can you explain this?” says Mr. Longcluse coolly.
“You may as well give in quiet,” says the third policeman, producing the warrant. “A warrant for murder. Walter Longcluse, alias Yelland Mace, I arrest you in the Queen's name.”
“There's a magistrate here? Oh! yes, I see. How d'ye do, Mr. Harman? My name is Longcluse, as you know. The name Mays, or any other alias, you'll not insult me by applying to me, if you please. Of course this is obvious and utter trumpery. Are there informations, or what the devil is it?”
“They have just been sworn before me, Sir,” answered the magistrate, who was a little man, with a wave of his hand, and his head high.