He produced the document.
“Signed by two stipendary magistrates to be absolutely sure,” he said flippantly; “impound all documents you find, Parsons.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man and led away the first of his victims which happened to be the docile Mr. Mulberry.
“It is an unpleasant business,” sighed Michael as he watched the girl pass from the room followed by her searcher, “but then, you will understand, Colonel, that our profession is full of heartrending moments. You are still on ticket of leave, I understand?”
“Expired,” growled Colonel Westhanger.
“Pardon me,” said Michael. “I have been misinformed. I would like a word with you.”
He led the other to the corner of the room out of earshot and the good humor died out of his voice as he confronted the older man.
“Westhanger,” he said, “who was the tutor of this girl?”
“I don’t quite get you?” said the other insolently.
“Who taught Kate to be a thief—is that plain enough for you?”
“If she is a thief it is a matter of aptitude. I deny that she is a thief or that she is a party to any illegal act of which my unfortunate friends may have been guilty—nobody taught her.”
“You are a queer fellow,” said Michael. “I suppose you are just unmoral.”
“My personal character—” began the other.
“By unmoral, I mean you have no sense of meum and tuum. In other words, you are a born thief. You forgive me, but subtlety seems to be wasted on you. I ask you again, who educated Kate?”
The Colonel smiled.
“Kate has much to thank me for,” he said smugly. “I have been a father and more than a father to that child and I assure you, Mr. Pretherston, that you are altogether wrong when you think that she is a thief. Why do you ask?” he demanded, suddenly breaking off.
“Because,” said Michael looking him steadily in the eye, “I believe that you have deliberately set yourself to exploit the genius of a clever child for your own profit. I believe that you, and you only, have so distorted her viewpoint that you have destroyed her soul. I am not sure yet,” he admitted, “but when I am—”
“When you are,” sneered the Colonel.
“On one charge or another, I shall put you into prison,” said Michael simply, “and I shall keep you in prison until you are dead. I will set myself the agreeable task of ensuring your end in a prison infirmary—which, I understand, is not a very cheerful place.”
The Colonel shuddered. There was something fateful, there was something malignant, a scarcely suppressed expression of hate in the police officer’s tone. For a second the older man wilted and shrunk back beneath the fierce intensity in Michael’s voice and then, like the weakling that he was, he burst into a torrent of abuse which was founded in fear and energised by rage.
“Damn you,” he hissed; “threaten me! … I will have your coat off your back, you damned policeman! … You sneaking slop! … Kate’s what she is. She will beat you and all your flat-footed pals! If she’s bad, you can’t make her anything else. I made her, yes, I made her! She is going to beat you, do you hear, and you will never catch her or me. I made her! You can’t scare me … !”
His shrill voice trembled with anger, he was shaking from head to foot and the bony fist which shivered in Michael’s face was so tightly clenched that the knuckles stood out whitely.
“She is not the kind you can cure with psalms, Mr. Policeman! You can’t pray over her because she has nothing to pray to, do you hear that? You caught me. You sent me to that hell at Wandsworth and I am going to get back on you, you and all people like you. Kate’s the biggest thing you have handled and she is going to break you, break you!”
“Uncle!”
He turned round to meet the white face of the girl.
“Are you mad?” she asked quietly.
He dropped his eyes before hers.
“He got me rattled,” he muttered.
Michael looked at the searcher and the woman shook her head.
With a nod he dismissed her.
“Not guilty!” he said flippantly.
He looked at the trembling man in front of him with a calm intensity.
“I shall remember a lot of what you said, Westhanger, and you will hear from me one of these days.”
He walked over to the fireplace, for out of the tail of his eye he had seen the burnt paper. He thrust a finger gently through the ash.
“Still warm,” he said. “I gather we were a little late.”
He scooped out a handful of the ash and carried it to the light. A word or two of the burnt instructions was still faintly visible but there was nothing to assist him. Nevertheless he had the whole of the ashes carefully deposited in a box and carried away—he himself being the last of the police to leave.
He stood in the centre of the room carefully smoothing the nap of his felt hat and Crime Street waited for the inevitable warning. In this they were disappointed, for Michael addressed himself solely to Kate.
“I will give you a chance, Miss Westhanger,” he said and they wondered why he did not employ the more familiar style of address. “You are about to commit a crime which will render every one of you liable to long terms of penal servitude. What that crime is, I don’t know, but I am certain it is what Stockmar would call ‘kolossal.’ It would not matter to me if everyone of you rotted in prison for the rest of your lives.”
“Tank you,” said Mr. Stockmar, “dat is fery goot of you!”
“When I say everyone of you,” said Michael, “I exclude Kate. She is a young girl and if there is one of you who has any pretensions to manhood, you will get her out of this gang before you go any farther. If there is one of you who has a mother or a sister or any
