The constable looked as wise as he could, and took up his staff of office: which had been reclining indolently in the chimney-corner.
‘It’s a simple question of identity, you will observe,’ said the doctor.
‘That’s what it is, sir,’ replied the constable, coughing with great violence; for he had finished his ale in a hurry, and some of it had gone the wrong way.
‘Here’s the house broken into,’ said the doctor, ‘and a couple of men catch one moment’s glimpse of a boy, in the midst of gunpowder smoke, and in all the distraction of alarm and darkness. Here’s a boy comes to that very same house, next morning, and because he happens to have his arm tied up, these men lay violent hands upon him—by doing which, they place his life in great danger—and swear he is the thief. Now, the question is, whether these men are justified by the fact; if not, in what situation do they place themselves?’
The constable nodded profoundly. He said, if that wasn’t law, he would be glad to know what was.
‘I ask you again,’ thundered the doctor, ‘are you, on your solemn oaths, able to identify that boy?’
Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles; Mr. Giles looked doubtfully at Brittles; the constable put his hand behind his ear, to catch the reply; the two women and the tinker leaned forward to listen; the doctor glanced keenly round; when a ring was heard at the gate, and at the same moment, the sound of wheels.
‘It’s the runners!’ cried Brittles, to all appearance much relieved.
‘The what?’ exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn.
‘The Bow Street officers, sir,’ replied Brittles, taking up a candle; ‘me and Mr. Giles sent for ‘em this morning.’