His name was Morton, and he was a Liverpool man long pickled in the Irish quarrels, and doing his duty among them in a sour fashion not altogether unsympathetic.  He had spoken a few sentences to his companion, Nolan, a tall, dark man with a cadaverous equine Irish face, when he seemed to remember something and touched a bell which rang in another room.  The subordinate he had summoned immediately appeared with a sheaf of papers in his hand.

“Sit down, Wilson,” he said.  “Those are the depositions, I suppose.”

“Yes,” replied the third officer.  “I think I’ve got all there is to be got out of them, so I sent the people away.”

“Did Mary Cregan give evidence?” asked Morton, with a frown that looked a little heavier than usual.

“No, but her master did,” answered the man called Wilson, who had flat, red hair and a plain, pale face, not without sharpness.  “I think he’s hanging round the girl himself and is out against a rival.  There’s always some reason of that sort when we are told the truth about anything.  And you bet the other girl told right enough.”

“Well, let’s hope they’ll be some sort of use,” remarked Nolan, in a somewhat hopeless manner, gazing out into the darkness.

“Anything is to the good,” said Morton, “that lets us know anything about him.”

“Do we know anything about him?” asked the melancholy Irishman.

“We know one thing about him,” said Wilson, “and it’s the one thing that nobody ever knew before.  We know where he is.”

“Are you sure?” inquired Morton, looking at him sharply.

“Quite sure,” replied his assistant.  “At this very minute he is in that tower over there by the shore.  If you go near enough you’ll see the candle burning in the window.”

As he spoke the noise of a horn sounded on the road outside, and a moment after they heard the throbbing of a motor car brought to a standstill before the door.  Morton instantly sprang to his feet.

“Thank the Lord that’s the car from Dublin,” he said.  “I can’t do anything without special authority, not if he were sitting on the top of the tower and putting out his tongue at us.  But the chief can do what he thinks best.”

He hurried out to the entrance and was soon exchanging greetings with a big handsome man in a fur coat, who brought into the dingy little station the indescribable glow of the great cities and the luxuries of the great world.

For this was Sir Walter Carey, an official of such eminence in Dublin Castle that nothing short of the case of Prince Michael would have brought him on such a journey in the middle of the night.  But the case of Prince Michael, as it happened, was complicated by legalism as well as lawlessness.  On the last occasion he had escaped by a forensic quibble and not, as usual, by a private escapade; and it was a question whether at the moment he was amenable to the law or not.  It might be necessary to stretch a point, but a man like Sir Walter could probably stretch it as far as he liked.