Whether he intended to do so was a question to be considered.  Despite the almost aggressive touch of luxury in the fur coat, it soon became apparent that Sir Walter’s large leonine head was for use as well as ornament, and he considered the matter soberly and sanely enough.  Five chairs were set round the plain deal table, for who should Sir Walter bring with him but his young relative and secretary, Horne Fisher.  Sir Walter listened with grave attention, and his secretary with polite boredom, to the string of episodes by which the police had traced the flying rebel from the steps of the hotel to the solitary tower beside the sea.  There at least he was cornered between the moors and the breakers; and the scout sent by Wilson reported him as writing under a solitary candle, perhaps composing another of his tremendous proclamations.  Indeed, it would have been typical of him to choose it as the place in which finally to turn to bay.  He had some remote claim on it, as on a family castle; and those who knew him thought him capable of imitating the primitive Irish chieftains who fell fighting against the sea.

“I saw some queer-looking people leaving as I came in,” said Sir Walter Carey.  “I suppose they were your witnesses.  But why do they turn up here at this time of night?”

Morton smiled grimly.  “They come here by night because they would be dead men if they came here by day.  They are criminals committing a crime that is more horrible here than theft or murder.”

“What crime do you mean?” asked the other, with some curiosity.

“They are helping the law,” said Morton.

There was a silence, and Sir Walter considered the papers before him with an abstracted eye.  At last he spoke.

“Quite so; but look here, if the local feeling is as lively as that there are a good many points to consider.  I believe the new Act will enable me to collar him now if I think it best.  But is it best?  A serious rising would do us no good in Parliament, and the government has enemies in England as well as Ireland.  It won’t do if I have done what looks a little like sharp practice, and then only raised a revolution.”

“It’s all the other way,” said the man called Wilson, rather quickly.  “There won’t be half so much of a revolution if you arrest him as there will if you leave him loose for three days longer.  But, anyhow, there can’t be anything nowadays that the proper police can’t manage.”

“Mr. Wilson is a Londoner,” said the Irish detective, with a smile.

“Yes, I’m a cockney, all right,” replied Wilson, “and I think I’m all the better for that.  Especially at this job, oddly enough.”

Sir Walter seemed slightly amused at the pertinacity of the third officer, and perhaps even more amused at the slight accent with which he spoke, which rendered rather needless his boast about his origin.

“Do you mean to say,” he asked, “that you know more about the business here because you have come from London?”