Mr. Murray was, in general, a reticent man. It was not his way to express decided opinions in the presence of authorities, or indeed of any one else. Mr. Paley, who knew his man, eyed him with curiosity.
"What was there odd about that?"
"Why, instead of the constable bringing him, it was him who brought the constable. When they opened the gate there was him with the policeman over his shoulder."
In spite of Mr. Murray's evident earnestness, there were some of his hearers who were unable to repress a smile.
"Do you mean that the constable was drunk?"
"That's the queer part of it. It was John Mitchell. I've known him for two-and-twenty years. I never knew him have a glass too much before. I saw him soon afterwards--he was all right then. He said he had only had three half-pints. He was quite himself till he got near the gate, when all of a sudden he went queer all over."
"Possibly the ale was drugged," suggested the doctor.
"I don't know nothing about that, but I do know that the same hand that played that trick was the same hand that played the tricks with the cells."
"Consider a moment what you are saying, Murray. How are three hundred locks to be tampered with in the middle of the night by a man who is himself a prisoner? One moment--But even that is nothing compared to the feat of carrying three hundred men fast asleep in bed--bed and all--through three hundred closed doors, under the very noses of the officers on guard--think of doing all that singlehanded!"
"It was witchcraft."