“Sounds funny, I know, but I do believe it,” answered Wilson.  “I believe these affairs want fresh methods.  But most of all I believe they want a fresh eye.”

The superior officers laughed, and the redhaired man went on with a slight touch of temper: 

“Well, look at the facts.  See how the fellow got away every time, and you’ll understand what I mean.  Why was he able to stand in the place of the scarecrow, hidden by nothing but an old hat?  Because it was a village policeman who knew the scarecrow was there, was expecting it, and therefore took no notice of it.  Now I never expect a scarecrow.  I’ve never seen one in the street, and I stare at one when I see it in the field.  It’s a new thing to me and worth noticing.  And it was just the same when he hid in the well.  You are ready to find a well in a place like that; you look for a well, and so you don’t see it.  I don’t look for it, and therefore I do look at it.”

“It is certainly an idea,” said Sir Walter, smiling, “but what about the balcony?  Balconies are occasionally seen in London.”

“But not rivers right under them, as if it was in Venice,” replied Wilson.

“It is certainly a new idea,” repeated Sir Walter, with something like respect.  He had all the love of the luxurious classes for new ideas.  But he also had a critical faculty, and was inclined to think, after due reflection, that it was a true idea as well.

Growing dawn had already turned the window panes from black to gray when Sir Walter got abruptly to his feet.  The others rose also, taking this for a signal that the arrest was to be undertaken.  But their leader stood for a moment in deep thought, as if conscious that he had come to a parting of the ways.

Suddenly the silence was pierced by a long, wailing cry from the dark moors outside.  The silence that followed it seemed more startling than the shriek itself, and it lasted until Nolan said, heavily: 

“’Tis the banshee.  Somebody is marked for the grave.”

His long, large-featured face was as pale as a moon, and it was easy to remember that he was the only Irishman in the room.

“Well, I know that banshee,” said Wilson, cheerfully, “ignorant as you think I am of these things.  I talked to that banshee myself an hour ago, and I sent that banshee up to the tower and told her to sing out like that if she could get a glimpse of our friend writing his proclamation.”

“Do you mean that girl Bridget Royce?” asked Morton, drawing his frosty brows together.  “Has she turned king’s evidence to that extent?”

“Yes,” answered Wilson.  “I know very little of these local things, you tell me, but I reckon an angry woman is much the same in all countries.”

Nolan, however, seemed still moody and unlike himself.  “It’s an ugly noise and an ugly business altogether,” he said.  “If it’s really the end of Prince Michael it may well be the end of other things as well.  When the spirit is on him he would escape by a ladder of dead men, and wade through that sea if it were made of blood.”