After the lapse of a few hours, McCloskey was brought by the accommodating
constable to the office of Mr. Stevens. "He'll be safe with you, I
suppose, Stevens;" said the constable, "but then there is no harm in seeing
for one's self that all's secure;" and thus speaking, he raised the window
and looked into the yard below. The height was too great for his prisoner
to escape in that direction; then satisfying himself that the other door
only opened into a closet, he retired, locking Mr. Stevens and his client
in the room.
Mr. Stevens arose as soon as the door closed behind the constable, and
stuffed a piece of damp sponge into the keyhole; he then returned and took
a seat by his client.
"Now, McCloskey," said he, in a low tone, as he drew his chair closely in
front of the prisoner, and fixed his keen grey eyes on him--"I've seen
Whitticar. And I tell you what it is--you're in a very tight place. He's
prepared to swear that he saw you with a slung shot in your hand--that he
saw you drop it after the man fell; he picked it up, and whilst the man was
lying dead at his tavern, awaiting the coroner's inquest, he examined the
wound, and saw in the skull two little dents or holes, which were
undoubtedly made by the little prongs that are on the leaden ball of the
weapon, as they correspond in depth and distance apart; and, moreover, the
ball is attached to a twisted brace which proves to be the fellow to the
one found upon a pair of your trousers.
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