“Don’t hurt him, please,” said Reginald. “He doesn’t mean any harm.”
“Tell you it’s me,” cried the boy, trembling in the grasp of the law, “me and that there Medlock. My gov’nor ain’t done it.”
“Hush, be quiet, Love,” said Reginald. “It’ll do no good to make a noise. It can’t be helped. Good-bye.”
The boy fairly broke down, and began to blubber piteously.
Reginald, unmanned enough as it was, had not the heart to wait longer, and walked hurriedly to the door, followed by the policeman. This movement once more raised the faithful Love to a final effort.
“Let ’im go, do you ’ear?” shouted he, rushing down the stairs after them. “I’ll do for yer if you don’t. Oh, guv’nor, take me too, can’t yer?”
But Reginald could only steel his heart for once, and feign not to hear the appeal.
The other policeman was waiting outside, and between his two custodians he walked, sick at heart, and faltering in courage, longing only to get out of the reach of the curious, critical eyes that turned on him from every side, and beyond the sound of that pitiful whimper of the faithful little friend as it followed him step by step to the very door of the police-station.
At the station Mr Sniff awaited the party with a pleasant smile of welcome.
“That’s right,” said he to Reginald, encouragingly; “much better to come quietly, looks better. Look here, young fellow,” he added, rather more confidentially, “the first question you’ll be asked is whether you’re guilty or not. Take my advice, and make a clean breast of it.”