A week or two later I was astonished one morning at receiving a visit in
my London lodgings from the warder Woollacott, whose life I had been
happily instrumental in saving at Portland Prison.
"Well, sir," he said, grasping my hand warmly and gratefully, "you see I
haven't yet entirely recovered from that terrible morning. I shall bear
the marks of it about me for the remainder of my lifetime. The Governor
says I shall never again be fit for duty, so they've pensioned me off
very honourable."
I told him how pleased I was that he should have been liberally treated,
and then we fell into conversation about myself and the means of
re-establishing my perfect innocence.
"Sir," said he, "I shall have plenty of leisure, and shall be
comfortably off now. If there's anything that I can do to be of service
to you in the matter, I shall gladly do it. My time is entirely at your
disposal."
I thanked him warmly, but told him that the affair was already in the
hands of the regular detectives, who had been set to work upon it by the
Governor's influence with the Home Secretary.
By-and-by I happened to mention confidentially to him my suspicions of
the man Mactavish. An idea seemed to occur to the warder suddenly; but
he said not a word to me about it at the time. A few days later,
however, he came back to me quietly and said, in a confidential tone of
voice, "Well, sir, I think we may still manage to square him."
"Square who, Mr. Woollacott? I don't understand you."
"Why, Mactavish, sir. I found out he had a small house near the Museum,
and his wife lets a lodging there for a single man. I've gone and taken
the lodging, and I shall see whether in the course of time something or
other doesn't come out of it."
I smiled and thanked him for his enthusiasm in my cause; but I confess I
didn't see how anything on earth of any use to me was likely to arise
from this strange proceeding on his part.