The malignant creature was seated in his own parlour, with a policeman upon each side of him.
“It was a joke, my good sir—a practical joke, nothing more,” he whined incessantly. “I assure you, sir, that I simply concealed myself in order to see the effect of my disappearance, and I am sure that you would not be so unjust as to imagine that I would have allowed any harm to befall poor young Mr. McFarlane.”
“That’s for a jury to decide,” said Lestrade. “Anyhow, we shall have you on a charge of conspiracy, if not for attempted murder.”
“And you’ll probably find that your creditors will impound the banking account of Mr. Cornelius,” said Holmes.
The little man started, and turned his malignant eyes upon my friend.
“I have to thank you for a good deal,” said he. “Perhaps I’ll pay my debt some day.”
Holmes smiled indulgently.
“I fancy that, for some few years, you will find your time very fully occupied,” said he. “By the way, what was it you put into the wood-pile besides your old trousers? A dead dog, or rabbits, or what? You won’t tell? Dear me, how very unkind of you! Well, well, I dare say that a couple of rabbits would account both for the blood and for the charred ashes. If ever you write an account, Watson, you can make rabbits serve your turn.”
