"I went back to Smith Street, and I thought the whole thing over. My first idea was to see Mr. Burton: then I remembered that he was going down to Ashton, and as likely as not he'd have started. There wasn't no doubt in my mind as to who'd done the murder. I felt as sure as anything it was one of the San Luca gang the master had told me about. As like as not they'd followed me down in a cab; and it troubled me much, sir, to think that maybe I'd brought his death on him after he'd saved my life. In a way, as you might say, sir, it made me feel I was responsible for finding the man who'd done it."
Milford's voice shook, and he brushed the back of his hand quietly across his eyes. That Prado, who had proved himself to be one of the most callous ruffians that even South America has produced, should have been capable of inspiring such signs of affection was a mystery which I will make no attempt to solve. It was quite plain, however, that Milford's distress was genuine.
"Didn't it appear to you to be a pretty hopeless business?" inquired the Magistrate.
Milford nodded. "I just had two things to go on, sir. I knew it was a foreigner, and I guessed that he couldn't be very far away. Mr. Northcote wasn't the sort of gentleman who'd have let himself be killed easy, and I'd heard the people outside the house talking about the blood-stains down the stairs. So I reckoned it out that he was probably lying low somewhere in the neighbourhood. There's many a house round that part would take a man in without asking no questions so long as he could pay what they wanted."
He paused to wipe away the perspiration which glistened on his forehead.
"Open another of the windows," said the magistrate irritably. "It's hot enough in here to make us all faint."
Milford waited a moment, while the policeman pulled down one of the long sashes at the back of the court.
"Well?" asked the magistrate interrogatively.
Milford moistened his lips. "It was a chance, sir, just pure chance, that put me on the right track. For three days I'd hunted round without finding out any more than the police had done. Then last night, just before eight o'clock it was, I was standing outside the Dockyard Arms when a boy came by with some papers. I bought one, and the first thing I saw when I opened it was about the arrest of Mr. Burton. Finding it unexpected like that, sir, gave me quite a turn. You see, sir, until I saw it in the paper, I didn't even know the police had discovered it was Mr. Northcote who'd been murdered. I felt that shaken, sir, I turned in to have a drop of brandy and to think it over quiet like. The Dockyard bar's divided into compartments—little wooden compartments—about as high as my shoulder. I was sitting there having my brandy and thinking over what I ought to do, when two men came in and sat down in the next division. They started talking, sir, not very loud, but enough for me to hear what they were saying. I listened for a bit without really taking in what they meant, and then all of a sudden it came to me, sir, like—like a blow in the face."
He paused.