“Discredit it if you like, it’s all the same to me,” I replied rather disinterestedly, after which the officer turned on his heel and left.
I sank upon a chair in a semi-exhausted state, and tried to think of some way out of this maze, for I could plainly see none of my statements appeared to have even the elements of truth.
The constable stood silently at the door, his arms folded, his gaze fixed upon me. He was watching me, fearing, perhaps, lest I should attempt suicide to escape justice.
Shortly afterwards three men entered, accompanied by the inspector. Two were detectives—I knew them at a glance—the other a tall, dark man, with curled moustaches, pointed beard, and a pair of keen grey eyes. He spoke with authority, in a sharp, abrupt tone, and, as I afterwards, discovered, I was correct in thinking him the superintendent of that division of Metropolitan police.
“I understand you give a false name, refuse your address, and decline to say how you came possessed of this seal?” he said to me.
“The seal was given me by a man who is dead,” I repeated, calmly.
“Has that man any relations living?”
“I don’t know.”
“What evidence can you bring to corroborate your statement that it was given to you?”
“None. But stay—I have one friend whom I told of the occurrence, although I do not wish him to be brought into this matter.”