′You missed a friend, you know; or you missed a foe, you know; or you wouldn′t have come here, you know. Well, then; ain′t it reasonable to ask, who was it?′ Thus, Mr Inspector.
′You must excuse my telling you. No class of man can understand better than you, that families may not choose to publish their disagreements and misfortunes, except on the last necessity. I do not dispute that you discharge your duty in asking me the question; you will not dispute my right to withhold the answer. Good-night.′
Again he turned towards the wicket, where the satellite, with his eye upon his chief, remained a dumb statue.
′At least,′ said Mr Inspector, ′you will not object to leave me your card, sir?′
′I should not object, if I had one; but I have not.′ He reddened and was much confused as he gave the answer.
′At least,′ said Mr Inspector, with no change of voice or manner, ′you will not object to write down your name and address?′
′Not at all.′
Mr Inspector dipped a pen in his inkstand, and deftly laid it on a piece of paper close beside him; then resumed his former attitude. The stranger stepped up to the desk, and wrote in a rather tremulous hand—Mr Inspector taking sidelong note of every hair of his head when it was bent down for the purpose—′Mr Julius Handford, Exchequer Coffee House, Palace Yard, Westminster.′
′Staying there, I presume, sir?′
′Staying there.′
′Consequently, from the country?′
′Eh? Yes—from the country.′
′Good-night, sir.′
The satellite removed his arm and opened the wicket, and Mr Julius Handford went out.
′Reserve!′ said Mr Inspector. ′Take care of this piece of paper, keep him in view without giving offence, ascertain that he IS staying there, and find out anything you can about him.′
The satellite was gone; and Mr Inspector, becoming once again the quiet Abbot of that Monastery, dipped his pen in his ink and resumed his books. The two friends who had watched him, more amused by the professional manner than suspicious of Mr Julius Handford, inquired before taking their departure too whether he believed there was anything that really looked bad here?
The Abbot replied with reticence, couldn′t say. If a murder, anybody might have done it. Burglary or pocket-picking wanted ′prenticeship. Not so, murder. We were all of us up to that. Had seen scores of people come to identify, and never saw one person struck in that particular way. Might, however, have been Stomach and not Mind. If so, rum stomach. But to be sure there were rum everythings. Pity there was not a word of truth in that superstition about bodies bleeding when touched by the hand of the right person; you never got a sign out of bodies. You got row enough out of such as her—she was good for all night now (referring here to the banging demands for the liver), ′but you got nothing out of bodies if it was ever so.′
There being nothing more to be done until the Inquest was held next day, the friends went away together, and Gaffer Hexam and his son went their separate way. But, arriving at the last corner, Gaffer bade his boy go home while he turned into a red-curtained tavern, that stood dropsically bulging over the causeway, ′for a half-a-pint.′
The boy lifted the latch he had lifted before, and found his sister again seated before the fire at her work.
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