Whereupon he produced the very weapon with which the maniac had threatened me—the large, bright, new revolver. I identified it at once.
“there was a scuffle.”
“I got it out of his side pocket quick as thought,” said the man.
Good! And now I retired into my study while the other detective brought the stranger forward.
“What the devil are you fools about?” I heard him cry, as he entered, handcuffed, at the door.
The sound of his voice startled me. It was not that of my visitor the night before. A single glance showed me that it was quite a different sort of person.
“Halloa!” I cried, “there is some mistake here. That’s not the lunatic.”
“Lunatic!” exclaimed the captured man, “I should think not indeed. It is you who are the lunatics. I am a policeman!”
And a policeman he was—in plain clothes. He had come to tell me that the maniac was dead. He had shot himself almost immediately after leaving me, and the constable who had put me into a hansom remembered my words and my name and address. Hence I was now summoned to give evidence at the inquest.