“So you ran away.”
“Yes, I go home. Every night I go home.”
“But you usually stay until Mr. Locke is ready to retire—or at least until he dismisses you?”
“Yes—usually.”
“What time did Mr. Locke leave last night?”
“Maybe half-past ten—maybe.”
“You saw him go? Ah, you let him out?”
“I saw him go—I no let him out.”
“Oh, yes, I remember—he let himself out, of course. Was that it?”
But the Chinaman had sensed something wrong, and became secretive.
“I no know—I no see him.”
“Hey there—none o’ that! You said you did see him! You want to be arrested? Shut up in big prison? Bread and water? Hey? You tell the truth, now. What time did you see Mr. Locke go out of this house?”
“Can’t tell”—and Charley looked sullen. “Don’t know.”
“Well, you find out. Cudgel your memory now. Wasn’t it earlier than half past ten?”
“No”; with an ugly glance.
“All right, was it later?”
“No,” angrily now.
“Then, as near as you can fix the time, Mr. Locke left this house at about ten thirty. Alone?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know! Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Did he wear his—his big monk dress?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then you go to prison. Take him,” Hutchins nodded to the guards.
