"He is a preacher now," added Mr. Higgs.
"Preacher?" retorted the constable. "Why it's as plain as a pikestaff. Confederates: his part was to go down and let 'em in."
Mr. Burge raised a piteous outcry. "I hope you may be forgiven for them words," he cried piously.
"What time did you go up to bed?" pursued the constable.
"About half-past eleven," replied Mr. Higgs.
The other grunted with satisfaction. "And he's fully dressed, with his boots off," he remarked. "Did you hear him go out of his room at all?"
"He did go out," said the jeweller truth-fully, "but——"
"I thought so," said the constable, turning to his prisoner with affectionate solicitude. "Now you come along o' me. Come quietly, because it'll be the best for you in the end."
"You won't get your skull split open then," added the butcher, toying with his cleaver.
The jeweller hesitated. He had no desire to be left alone with Mr. Burge again; and a sense of humour, which many years' association with the Primitive Apostles had not quite eradicated, strove for hearing.