“If it should turn out to be the same, I may have a more serious charge to bring against him,” said Mr. Longcluse.
“Do you wish to go before his worship, and give an information, Sir?” urged the officer, invitingly.
“Not quite ripe for that yet,” said Mr. Longcluse, “but it is likely very soon.”
“And what might be the nature of the more serious charge, Sir?” inquired the officer, insinuatingly.
“I mean to give my evidence at the coroner's inquest that will be held to-day, on the Frenchman who was murdered last night at the Saloon Tavern. It is not conclusive—it does not fix anything upon him; it is merely inferential.”
“Connecting him with the murder?” whispered the man, something like reverence mingling with his curiosity, as he discovered the interesting character of his interrogator.
“I can only say possibly connecting him in some way with it. Where does the man live?”
“He did live in Rosemary Court, but he left that, I think. I'll ask, if you please, Sir. Tompkins—hi! You know where Paul Davies puts up. Left Rosemary Court?”
“Yes, five weeks. He went to Gold Ring Alley, but he's left that a week ago, and I don't know where he is now, but will easy find him. Will it answer at eight this evening, Sir?”
“Quite. I want a servant of mine to have a sight of him,” said Longcluse.