"Now, don't you try it on," said Mr. Jinks. "I didn't want to use these, you know, if you'd have come quietly. I've heard you belong to a respectable family, so I thought I wouldn't ornament you with these here objects of bigotry" (it is to be presumed Mr. Jinks means bijouterie); "but it seems there's no help for it, so come along to the station; we shall catch the eight-thirty train, and be in Slopperton before ten. The inquest won't come on till to-morrow."
Richard looked at his wrists, from his wrists to the faces of the two men, with an utterly hopeless expression of wonder.
"Am I mad," he said, "or drunk, or dreaming? What have you put these cursed things upon me for? Why do you want to take me back to Slopperton? What inquest? Who's dead?"
Mr. Jinks put his head on one side, and contemplated the prisoner with the eye of a connoisseur.
"Don't he come the hinnocent dodge stunnin'?" he said, rather to himself than to his companion, who, by the bye, throughout the affair had never once spoken. "Don't he do it beautiful? Wouldn't he be a first-rate actor up at the Wictoria Theayter in London? Wouldn't he be prime in the 'Suspected One,' or 'Gonsalvo the Guiltless?' Vy," said Mr. Jinks, with intense admiration, "he'd be worth his two-pound-ten a week and a clear half benefit every month to any manager as is."
As Mr. Jinks made these complimentary remarks, he and his friend walked on. Richard, puzzled, bewildered, and unresisting, walked between them towards the railway station; but presently Mr. Jinks condescended to reply to his prisoner's questions, in this wise:—
"You want to know what inquest? Well, a inquest on a gentleman what's been barbarously murdered. You want to know who's dead? Why, your uncle is the gent as has been murdered. You want to know why we are going to take you back to Slopperton? Well, because we've got a warrant to arrest you upon suspicion of having committed the murder."
"My uncle murdered!" cried Richard, with a face that now for the first time since his arrest betrayed anxiety and horror; for throughout his interview with Mr. Jinks he had never once seemed frightened. His manner had expressed only utter bewilderment of mind.
"Yes, murdered; his throat cut from ear to ear."
"It cannot be," said Richard. "There must be some horrid mistake here. My uncle, Montague Harding, murdered! I bade him good-bye at twelve last night in perfect health."
"And this morning he was found murdered in his bed; with
