"They were too good for me, Doris," he responded, as though in reply to
her unspoken query. "I would have got away from this chap"--he indicated
Rolfe with a nod of his head--"but I ran into the other one."
He stooped as he spoke to brush with his manacled hands some of the dirt
from his clothes, which he had doubtless gained in his perilous climb
down the side of the house, and then straightened himself to look
loweringly at his captors. He was a tall, slender young fellow of about
twenty-five or twenty-six, clean-shaven, with a fresh complexion and a
rather effeminate air. He was well dressed in a grey lounge suit, a soft
shirt, with a high double collar and silk necktie. He looked, as he stood
there, more like a dandified city clerk than the desperate criminal
suggested by Hill's confession.
"Come on, what's the charge?" he demanded insolently, with a slight
glance at his manacled hands.
"Is your name Frederick Birchill?" asked Inspector Chippenfield.
The young man nodded.
"Then, Frederick Birchill, you're charged with burglariously entering
the house of Sir Horace Fewbanks, at Hampstead, on the night of the 18th
of August.
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