“Very well; no occupation,” and then there was a silence of some minutes, only broken by the hissing of the flaring gas-jet, and the monotonous scratching of the inspector’s quill.
“Sign your names,” he commanded, when he had finished; and the two constables who had arrested me appended their signatures.
“Now, prisoner,” said the inspector, as he blotted the charge-sheet, “you are charged with breaking and entering the dwelling-house, Number 4, Angel Court, Drury Lane, for the purpose of committing a felony. I must caution you that any statement you make will be taken down and used as evidence against you.”
“I don’t see how I can be suspected of a felony when the place is unoccupied,” I replied.
“You must leave that point to be decided to-morrow by the magistrate. A man don’t break into a house for nothing.”
“Two days ago a man died in that house, and I was searching for his body in order to give you information,” I said.
“That can’t be true, sir,” interposed one of the men. “The house hasn’t been lived in for a year or more.”
“Well, if a man died there a couple of days ago there would be surely be some furniture, or some traces of habitation. When he’s in the cell, go and examine the premises thoroughly.”
“Very well, sir,” the man answered.
“Now,” said the inspector, turning to me, “have you anything more to say?”