After another silence, broken only by the fall of the ashes in the grate, which attracted the informer’s attention as if it were the chinking of money, Mortimer Lightwood leaned over his friend, and said in a whisper:

“I suppose I must go with this fellow to our imperturbable friend at the police-station.”

“I suppose,” said Eugene, “there is no help for it.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I believe him to be a thorough rascal. But he may tell the truth, for his own purpose, and for this occasion only.”

“It doesn’t look like it.”

“ He doesn’t,” said Eugene. “But neither is his late partner, whom he denounces, a prepossessing person. The firm are cutthroat Shepherds both, in appearance. I should like to ask him one thing.”