The prisoner raised a heavy head and looked up with unmistakable terror in his eyes.

“All right, sir,” he said, trembling, as the constable increased the pressure of his knee.  “I ’ain’t been in the house ten minutes altogether.  By —–­, I’ve not.”

The sergeant regarded him curiously.

“It don’t signify,” he said, slowly; “ten minutes or ten seconds won’t make any difference.”

The man shook and began to whimper.

“It was ’ere when I come,” he said, eagerly; “take that down, sir.  I’ve only just come, and it was ’ere when I come.  I tried to get away then, but I was locked in.”

“What was?” demanded the sergeant.

“That,” he said, desperately.

The sergeant, following the direction of the terror-stricken black eyes, stooped by the table.  Then, with a sharp exclamation, he dragged away the cloth.  Burleigh, with a sharp cry of horror, reeled back against the wall.

“All right, sir,” said the sergeant, catching him; “all right.  Turn your head away.”

He pushed him into a chair, and crossing the room, poured out a glass of whiskey and brought it to him.  The glass rattled against his teeth, but he drank it greedily, and then groaned faintly.  The sergeant waited patiently.  There was no hurry.

“Who is it, sir?” he asked at length.

“My friend—­Fletcher,” said Burleigh, with an effort.  “We lived together.”  He turned to the prisoner.

“You damned villain!”

“He was dead when I come in the room, gentlemen,” said the prisoner, strenuously.  “He was on the floor dead, and when I see ’im, I tried to get out.  S’ ’elp me he was.  You heard me call out, sir.  I shouldn’t ha’ called out if I’d killed him.”

“All right,” said the sergeant, gruffly; “you’d better hold your tongue, you know.”

“You keep quiet,” urged the constable.

The sergeant knelt down and raised the dead man’s head.

“I ’ad nothing to do with it,” repeated the man on the floor.  “I ’ad nothing to do with it.  I never thought of such a thing.  I’ve only been in the place ten minutes; put that down, sir.”

The sergeant groped with his left hand, and picking up the Japanese sword, held it at him.

“I’ve never seen it before,” said the prisoner, struggling.

“It used to hang on the wall,” said Burleigh.  “He must have snatched it down.  It was on the wall when I left Fletcher a little while ago.”

“How long?” inquired the sergeant.

“Perhaps an hour, perhaps half an hour,” was the reply.  “I went to my bedroom.”

The man on the floor twisted his head and regarded him narrowly.

“You done it!” he cried, fiercely.  “You done it, and you want me to swing for it.”

“That ’ll do,” said the indignant constable.

The sergeant let his burden gently to the floor again.