“Never say die; that’s what we’re here for.  So,” he went on, “you’re a rebel; Socialist, perhaps.  Dear me!  Well, we’re all of us something, nowadays—­I’m a humanitarian myself.  Often say to Mrs. Pogram—­humanity’s the thing in this age—­and so it is!  Well, now, what line shall we take?” And he rubbed his hands.  “Shall we have a try at once to upset what evidence they’ve got?  We should want a strong alibi.  Our friends here will commit if they can—­nobody likes arson.  I understand he was sleeping in your cottage.  His room, now?  Was it on the ground floor?”

“Yes; but—­”

Mr. Pogram frowned, as who should say:  Ah!  Be careful!  “He had better reserve his defence and give us time to turn round,” he said rather shortly.

They had arrived at the police station and after a little parley were ushered into the presence of Tryst.

The big laborer was sitting on the stool in his cell, leaning back against the wall, his hands loose and open at his sides.  His gaze passed at once from Felix and Mr. Pogram, who were in advance, to Derek; and the dumb soul seemed suddenly to look through, as one may see all there is of spirit in a dog reach out to its master.  This was the first time Felix had seen him who had caused already so much anxiety, and that broad, almost brutal face, with the yearning fidelity in its tragic eyes, made a powerful impression on him.  It was the sort of face one did not forget and might be glad of not remembering in dreams.  What had put this yearning spirit into so gross a frame, destroying its solid coherence?  Why could not Tryst have been left by nature just a beer-loving serf, devoid of grief for his dead wife, devoid of longing for the nearest he could get to her again, devoid of susceptibility to this young man’s influence?  And the thought of all that was before the mute creature, sitting there in heavy, hopeless patience, stung Felix’s heart so that he could hardly bear to look him in the face.

Derek had taken the man’s thick, brown hand; Felix could see with what effort the boy was biting back his feelings.

“This is Mr. Pogram, Bob.  A solicitor who’ll do all he can for you.”

Felix looked at Mr. Pogram.  The little man was standing with arms akimbo; his face the queerest mixture of shrewdness and compassion, and he was giving off an almost needlessly strong scent of gutta-percha.

“Yes, my man,” he said, “you and I are going to have a talk when these gentlemen have done with you,” and, turning on his heel, he began to touch up the points of his little pink nails with a penknife, in front of the constable who stood outside the cell door, with his professional air of giving a man a chance.

Invaded by a feeling, apt to come to him in Zoos, that he was watching a creature who had no chance to escape being watched, Felix also turned; but, though his eyes saw not, his ears could not help hearing.