Then he beckoned and led the way again, and they came to the police-station, still as clean and cool and steady as before, saving that the flame of its lamp — being but a lamp-flame, and only attached to the Force as an outsider — flickered in the wind.
Also, within doors, Mr Inspector was at his studies as of yore. He recognized the friends the instant they reappeared, but their reappearance had no effect on his composure. Not even the circumstance that Riderhood was their conductor moved him, otherwise than that as he took a dip of ink he seemed, by a settlement of his chin in his stock, to propound to that personage, without looking at him, the question, “What have you been up to, last?”
Mortimer Lightwood asked him, would he be so good as look at those notes? Handing him Eugene’s.
Having read the first few lines, Mr Inspector mounted to that (for him) extraordinary pitch of emotion that he said, “Does either of you two gentlemen happen to have a pinch of snuff about him?” Finding that neither had, he did quite as well without it, and read on.
“Have you heard these read?” he then demanded of the honest man.
“No,” said Riderhood.
“Then you had better hear them.” And so read them aloud, in an official manner.
“Are these notes correct, now, as to the information you bring here and the evidence you mean to give?” he asked, when he had finished reading.
“They are. They are as correct,” returned Mr Riderhood, “as I am. I can’t say more than that for ’em.”
“I’ll take this man myself, sir,” said Mr Inspector to Lightwood. Then to Riderhood, “Is he at home? Where is he? What’s he doing? You have made it your business to know all about him, no doubt.”
Riderhood said what he did know, and promised to find out in a few minutes what he didn’t know.
“Stop,” said Mr Inspector; “not till I tell you: We mustn’t look like business. Would you two gentlemen object to making a pretence of taking a glass of something in my company at the Fellowships? Well- conducted house, and highly respectable landlady.”
They replied that they would be happy to substitute a reality for the pretence, which, in the main, appeared to be as one with Mr Inspector’s meaning.
“Very good,” said he, taking his hat from its peg, and putting a pair of handcuffs in his pocket as if they were his gloves. “Reserve!” Reserve saluted. “You know where to find me?” Reserve again saluted. “Riderhood, when you have found out concerning his coming home, come round to the window of Cosy, tap twice at it, and wait for me. Now, gentlemen.”
As the three went out together, and Riderhood slouched off from under the trembling lamp his separate way, Lightwood asked the officer what he thought of this?
Mr Inspector replied, with due generality and reticence, that it was always more likely that a man had done a bad thing than that he hadn’t. That he himself had several times “reckoned up” Gaffer, but had never been able to bring him to a satisfactory criminal total. That if this story was true, it was only in part true. That the two men, very shy characters, would have been jointly and pretty equally “in it;” but that this man had “spotted” the other, to save himself and get the money.
“And I think,” added Mr Inspector, in conclusion, “that if all goes well with him, he’s in a tolerable way of getting it. But as this is the Fellowships, gentlemen, where the lights are, I recommend dropping the