“Now, George,” says Mr. Bucket, “don’t you go and commit yourself. I’m a-going to tell you what I want you for. There has been a murder in Lincoln’s Inn Fields⁠—gentleman of the name of Tulkinghorn. He was shot last night. I want you for that.”

The trooper sinks upon a seat behind him, and great drops start out upon his forehead, and a deadly pallor overspreads his face.

“Bucket! It’s not possible that Mr. Tulkinghorn has been killed and that you suspect me ?”

“George,” returns Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger going, “it is certainly possible, because it’s the case. This deed was done last night at ten o’clock. Now, you know where you were last night at ten o’clock, and you’ll be able to prove it, no doubt.”