The proud official--it is in truth a proud moment for him--utters but two words; but they are sufficient to animate the policemen's breasts with excess of ardour. "The murderer!" he whispers. The murderer! Had he spoken for an hour he could not have produced a more thrilling effect; and be sure that he was as conscious of the value of this dramatic point as the most skilful actor on our stage. A light was instantly thrown upon the drama of the crime, and the unfortunate man, in their eyes, was damned beyond hope of redemption. The murderer! Blood swam before their eyes. Delightful moments! But the ears of the prisoner had caught the words. "What!" he screamed, making a violent attempt to wrench himself from the grasp of his captors. Poor fool! He was one to five, and was soon reduced to physical submission. The rough usage he received in the course of the struggle appeared to tame him inwardly as well as outwardly; when he spoke again his voice was calmer. "Do you accuse me of the murder of that man?" he asked, turning his face towards 119, Great Porter Square. He was most surely condemning himself. "Yon know best whether you did it," observed Policeman X. "Yes," he replied, "I know best." "What were you doing there?" was the next enquiry. The man looked at them slowly, in detail, as though to fix their faces in his memory, and then, opening his lips, smiled, but did not speak. Nothing more exasperating could well have been imagined than the strange smile of this wretched man--a smile which seemed to say, "You will learn nothing from me." It was late in the night, but a crowd had already assembled, and the whisper went round that the murderer of the man who was found so cruelly murdered in No. 119, Great Porter Square, had been caught. Short shrift would have been his, even in this law-loving city, if the excited knot of persons could have had their way; but it was the duty of the constables to protect their prisoner. "Will you come quietly?" they asked of him. "Why not?" he asked in return. "I shall be the gainer." So, carefully guarded and held as in a vice, the man walked to the police-court with his captors, followed by the crowd. It was almost a gala night, and the persons who hung at the heels of the supposed murderer and his captors were vehement in speech and florid in action as they explained to every new-comer the cause of the gathering. "What is the charge?" asked the inspector. Who should answer but the prisoner himself? Strange fancy of his to take the words from the tongues of his accusers--to steal, as it were, the very bread from their mouths! "Murder," he cried, with a bitter laugh. An almost imperceptible quiver agitated the eyelids of the inspector, but it was in a quiet voice he repeated "Murder!" and held his pen suspended over the book in which the charges were set down. "No. 119, Great Porter Square," added Policeman X, not willing to be robbed of every one of his perquisites.