The boy in question happened to be a relation of his arch-enemy, the parish priest.  Better still.  Chuckling at the happy coincidence, he forgot all about Mr. Eames, and gave orders for the other to be conveyed to the guard-house, searched, and interrogated, arguing plausibly that a person of his mental instability would be sure to give himself away by some stupid remark.

Things turned out better than he had dared to hope.  Under the prisoner’s clothing was discovered a gold coin of foreign nationality attached, by a piece of string, round his neck.  For all one knew, it might have been Muhlen’s.  The interrogating carbineer who is invested, during such preliminary enquiries, with quasi-judicial functions—­being permitted to assume the role of prosecuting or defending counsel, or to remain sternly unbiased, as he feels inclined—­desired to learn how he had come by this jewel.

He received it long ago from his mother, he said, as a talisman against the moonsickness which had tormented him in childhood.  Replying, in stammering and dazed fashion, to further questions, he gave it to be understood that nobody had ever set eyes on the coin in question; he was afraid of showing it, lest someone should take it from him by force.  He loved the coin.  He got it from his mother.

“Ah!” said the friendly policeman.  “And your mother, now—­could she perhaps tell us when she gave it to you?”

“My mother is in Paradise.”

“Dead, is she?  H’m.  That looks queer, my young friend.  Very fishy.  You should be more careful in little things like that.  She ought to have been kept alive, you know.  Anybody can say they had gold coins given them by dead mothers, don’t you see?  Rather a thin trick.  Can’t you suggest something better?  Cheer up, boy!  You needn’t tremble all over.  Look, I am writing it down, and you must put your name to it afterwards.  Think—­little.  A living uncle, for instance—­if he came into Court and testified that he had given you the coin, why, it might make all the difference and get you out of a nasty scrape.  Surely you’ve got an uncle or something?  How about His Reverence the parroco?  Couldn’t he swear—?”

“My mother is in Paradise.”

“In Paradise, is she?  That’s where you ought to be, my son.  Just sign this declaration, please.  Then perhaps you will meet your mother sooner than you expect.  Can’t read or write?  Well, put your cross to it and may the Madonna help you!  For I can’t.  I’ve done my best to be impartial, but God alone can steer a fool.  He makes a specialty of it, they tell me.  If so, you’ve got a sporting chance. . . .”

Overjoyed with this incriminating deposition, His Worship gave orders for the prisoner’s formal arrest.  Aloud he remarked: