“My name is Pugh; it was I who sent the telegram. You have arrived, officer, in the very nick of time. I give that man into custody on a charge of murder.”
Pugh pointed to the wretched drunkard, who had subsided into shivering silence the moment the detective had appeared—as if he knew him. He shrank away, quivering like some frightened cur. The detective looked at Pugh, then at the miserable object in front of him; he seemed not quite to understand the situation.
“You give him into custody, you say, on a charge of murder; who has he murdered?”
“His wife. His name is Clinch. The body of his wife, Jane Clinch, was found yesterday, in an egg-box, under an arch in Lambeth. The man has confessed his guilt, in my friend’s presence and my own. Here, besides, is a copy of his unfortunate wife’
