John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened face and suspicion in his eyes.
“Where was you hid to see all that?” he cried. “It seems to me that you knows a deal more than you should.”
Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable.
“Don’t get arresting me for the murder,” he said. “I am one of the hounds and not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for that. Go on, though. What did you do next?”
Rance resumed his seat, without however losing his mystified expression.
“I went back to the gate and sounded my whistle. That brought Murcher and two more to the spot.”
“Was the street empty then?”
“Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes.”
“What do you mean?”
The constable’s features broadened into a grin.
“I’ve seen many a drunk chap in my time,” he said, “but never anyone so cryin’ drunk as that cove. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin’ up agin the railings, and a-singin’ at the pitch o’ his lungs about Columbine’s Newfangled Banner, or some such stuff. He couldn’t stand, far less help.”
“What sort of a man was he?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression.