“Let Mr. Morley speak for himself.” “Permit me to repeat, Mr. Symonds, that these premises are private; and before I allow you, on these premises, to bully a guest of mine, I must request you to show me the authority on which you are acting.” Inspector Symonds looked me up and down, as if he did not know exactly what to make of me. He seemed to hesitate. CHAPTER VIII. THE RECOGNITION OF THE PHOTOGRAPH When I had succeeded in extricating Mr. Morley from the clutches of Inspector Symonds, after a considerable wordy warfare, during which I had difficulty in keeping the inspector’s language within parliamentary bounds, I started on a little errand of my own. The inspector appeared to be under the impression that, for some malevolent reason, I wished to interfere with the due and proper execution of the law; and he told me, quite frankly, that so soon as Mr. Morley was off my premises he would bring, not only the old gentleman, but, so far as I understood, myself also, to book. Therefore, feeling that, under such circumstances, two might be better than one, so soon as the interview was ended, I proceeded, since his way was mine, to escort Mr. Morley at least part of his way home. The old gentleman was in a condition of great mental perturbation. He was sorry, for his master’s sake, that he had said as much as he had done to the inspector, and he was also sorry, for his own sake, that he had not said more; for he was uncomfortably conscious that, by his comparative reticence, he had incurred the officer’s resentment. “Do you think, sir,” he said, as we were parting--and I thought, as he was speaking, how old he seemed and tremulous--“that that Mr. Symonds will hunt me up, and worry me, as he as good as said he would? Because I know that I shan’t be able to stand it, if he does; my nerves are not what they were, and I never dreamed that I should have trouble with the police at my time of life.” I endeavoured to reassure him. “Mr. Morley, be at ease; fear nothing. You are the sole proprietor of your own tongue, use it to preserve silence; no one can force you to speak unless you choose.” I was not by any means so sure of this, in my own mind; but this was a detail. My object was to comfort Mr. Morley. It was at the door of the house in Arlington Street that we parted; after all, I went with him the whole way--it was practically mine. I waited while he inquired if his master had returned. The face of the old lady who opened the door, and who I immediately concluded was Mrs. Morley, was answer enough; she looked as if she bore all the trouble of the world upon her shoulders. He had not; nothing had been seen or heard of him. The point at which I was aiming was the photographer’s. As I walked away from Philip Lawrence’s house, I could not but feel conscious that every moment he remained absent made the case look blacker. What reason could he have to stay away, save one?