A Detective’s Experience  

A Midnight Adventure

“I will tell you nothing, sir!”

“But you must!”

“I will not!”

The young head was flung back with an imperious gesture, while the fierce blue eyes met mine, said Mr. F., full of scorn.

It was a strange case. It baffled us. Both Mr. I. and myself had wasted weeks upon it. We were no nearer the solution now than when we began.—The boy was obdurate. He would tell us nothing, yet we were sure this was the abode of the criminal. Time and again had we traced him to this old, rickety house, built near a century ago, and romantic with many a tale of the olden time. The moonbeams played upon its dome like fire, and the trees in the avenue and lawn caught a silver sheen from the weird beams that strayed in among their foliage. The dark shadows seemed instinct with life, as the waving leaves fashioned them in curious form on the dark grass.

Underneath these trees Mr. I. and myself had waited for hours that night. It was known that Charley Wynne was in the city; a policeman had seen him enter here. But we had searched the house from bottom to roof, and only this boy was seen—a child almost with sunny hair and face like a girl’s. There was a witching grace in the lithe, slender limbs, and the willowy frame, grace in every motion, courage in the fierce blue eye; and as we searched the house, the boy followed our movements, a smile of scorn upon his lips, but a look of anxiety in his eyes.

At last I had asked him if he knew the murderer of Mr. Hill, one Charley Wynne. He flushed redly as the question was repeated, and his lips trembled with emotion.

“Do you know him?” I repeated.

“I will not tell you, sir!”
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