My misfortunes had now fairly reached a climax, and it seemed useless to
struggle against circumstances any more.
Of course, I could see, as soon as my stunned senses recovered
sufficiently to enable me to perceive anything, that the same false hand
which had pointed me out as a thief had also placed that key in my desk
as part of his wicked plot. I remembered that when I was conveyed up to
the sample-room that morning my desk had been open. Nothing, therefore,
could have been more simple than to secrete the key there during my
absence, and so lay up against me a silent accuser which it would be far
harder to gainsay than a talking one.
But what was the use of explaining all this when evidently fortune had
decreed that I should become a victim? After all, was it not better to
give in at once, and let fate do its worst?
"This is my key of the safe," said Mr Merrett, and all eyes turned on
me.
Nothing I could say, it was clear, could do any good. I therefore gaped
stupidly at the key and said nothing.
"How came it in your desk, Batchelor?" asked Mr Barnacle.
I didn't know, and therefore I couldn't say, and consequently said
nothing.
"Have you any explanation to offer?" repeated Mr Barnacle.
"No," I replied.
"Then, officer," said Mr Merrett, "we must give him in charge."
The bare idea of being walked off to a police-station was enough to
drive all my sullenness and reserve to the four winds.