“O Benjie, try that on somebody else,” I rejoined, with a look which
must have convinced him that I was wide awake to his clumsy flattery.
“Out with what you’ve to say; I’ll find out your motive afterwards,
if it’s of any importance.”
“What’s it worth to put the thief in your hands?” he asked with
cunning look, which could not possibly be described on paper.
“It’s worth about as much as the thief or yourself—nothing,” I calmly
answered.
Ah, well, he was sorry for that, but he was still anxious to help
us—virtuous Benjie!—and would not mind doing a good action for once.
“You know Pat Corkling? Pauley, they call him,” he continued.
“Why! is he the man?” I cried in surprise. “I had a letter accusing
Bain, the policeman on the beat, of the crime, and I strongly
suspect, Benjie, that that letter came from _you_.”
Oh, no, it was quite a mistake. Benjie protested strongly—a trifle
too strongly—that he had never written such a letter in his life;
and I immediately concluded that he had written that letter, but was
puzzled to think why he should now come to me accusing Pauley.
“How do you know that Pauley did the job?” I asked, when Benjie had
done protesting.
“I didn’t say he did, and I’m not going to say it. I’m not to appear
as a witness in the case at all, mind—that must be the agreement, or
I tell nothing.”
“All right; I agree to that; go ahead with your story—I daresay it’s
a lie from beginning to end, so it doesn’t matter much.”