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Updated: June 9, 2025
He must see Murgatroyd again at once. Half-way along Peel Row, Pratt stopped, suddenly and with sudden fear. Out of a side street emerged a man, a quiet ordinary-looking man whom he knew very well indeed Detective-Sergeant Prydale. He was accompanied by a smart-looking, much younger man, whom Pratt remembered to have seen in Beck Street that afternoon a stranger to him and to Barford.
At ten o'clock Superintendent Polke, bluff and cheery as usual, and Detective-Sergeant Starmidge, eyeing his new surroundings with appreciative curiosity, strolled round the corner from the police-station and approached the bank. Half a dozen loungers were gathered before the window, reading the poster; the two police officials joined them and also read in silence.
Walters, I presume?" The landlord made a stiff bow and looked sharply at his questioner. "What can I do for you, sir?" he enquired. "A little matter of business, Mr. Walters," replied Rathbury, pulling out a card. "You'll see there who I am Detective-Sergeant Rathbury, of the Yard. This is Mr. Frank Spargo, a newspaper man; this is Mr. Ronald Breton, a barrister."
Detective-Sergeant Coombes, a plump, short man having lank black hair and a smile of sly contentment perpetually adorning his round face, rose hurriedly from the chair upon which he had been seated. Another man who was in the room rose also, as if galvanized by the glare of the fierce blue eyes.
The street contained no dwelling houses, and except for the solitary figure by the door was deserted and silent. Kerry took out his torch and shone a white ring upon the smiling countenance of Detective-Sergeant Coombes. "If that smile gets any worse," he said irritably, "they'll have to move your ears back. Anything to report?" "Sin Sin Wa went to bed an hour ago." "Any visitors?" "No."
Ever since his wife had died, in his detective-sergeant days, leaving him with a year-old daughter, his ambitions had been inseparably connected with Molly. All his thoughts were on the future. This New York life was only a preparation for the splendors to come. He spent not a dollar unnecessarily.
He took one himself and again glanced at the stranger. "To whom am I speaking, in addition to yourself, Inspector?" he asked. "I'm not going to talk to strangers." "Oh, well!" said Mitchington, a little awkwardly. "Of course, doctor, we've had to get a bit of professional help in these unpleasant matters. This gentleman's Detective-Sergeant Jettison, from the Yard."
When these had been disposed of, the coroner announced: "Before taking the medical evidence, gentlemen, I propose to hear that of the police-officers, and first we will call Detective-sergeant Alfred Bates." The sergeant stepped forward briskly, and proceeded to give his evidence with official readiness and precision.
But, you see, Detective-Sergeant Rodwell here, chanced to see him come out of the shop, and, recognising him as the jewel-thief we've wanted for months past, followed his cab down to Charing Cross Station, and there arrested him and took him to Bow Street." I stood utterly dumbfounded at this sudden ending of what I had believed would be an ideal engagement.
At about the time that this conversation was taking place in Ho-Pin's catacombs, Detective-Inspector Dunbar and Detective-Sergeant Sowerby were joined by a third representative of New Scotland Yard at the appointed spot by the dock gates.
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