"A—a—ahem! A Centaur, I believe?" he gasped.
Prevarication was useless. Andrew P. Hay bowed stiffly, and motioned the visitor to a chair.
"I—I must confess that I—er—hardly anticipated this—er ——. I was under the impression that we had been dealing with an ordinary human being if you'll excuse my saying so: but, forgive me—I fear the authorities to whom I am answerable will hardly approve of my obtaining information from a—er—a fabulous monster."
"A what, sir?" cried A. P. Hay: and he felt that equine part beginning to edge round for a kick, while his ears were lying back close to his head—the only equine idiosyncrasy of his human part; but one which distressed him greatly. He shouted for Bowes to catch hold of his head; he seized the poker and hammered at his flanks; but all in vain—those terrible hind-legs lashed out: and the official of the British Museum was no more.
It was a terrible affair: everything came out. Poor Mr. Hay was arrested and taken to Bow Street, where he was locked up in the green-yard stables.
The horse-part resisted violently, nearly killing three policemen, and attempting to gallop off; while Mr. Hay begged them to throw him and sit on his head, and subsequently apologized most sincerely.
The gaoler was very considerate, giving him his choice of oats or the usual fare.
The magistrate was greatly surprised; but, of course, sent the case for trial. At the trial, although the facts were clearly proved, the jury were divided, some bringing in a verdict of deliberate murder against Andrew Philip Hay; some considering him not guilty, but recommending the destruction of the horse-portion as a dangerous animal. The judge, animadverting in the severest terms on the conduct of the prisoner, declared that, although the jury had not been able to agree as to a verdict, society could not exonerate the perpetrator of such a deed; and exhorted the prisoner to reflect deeply upon his conduct, and make such atonement as remorse and contrition would suggest.
He then proceeded to comment upon the injudiciousness of the prisoner, who (although apparently guiltless of any desire to sacrifice human life) was, nevertheless, greatly to blame for his recklessness in keeping so dangerous an animal.