He returned with a large book, one of the
log-books which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on the
table he rapidly turned over the leaves of this volume until he
came to the entry which he sought. Then, with an angry gesture
of his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it in the
corner, and put out the light. He had hardly turned to leave
the hut when Hopkins's hand was on the fellow's collar, and I
heard his loud gasp of terror as he understood that he was
taken. The candle was re-lit, and there was our wretched
captive shivering and cowering in the grasp of the detective.
He sank down upon the sea-chest, and looked helplessly from one
of us to the other.
"Now, my fine fellow," said Stanley Hopkins, "who are you,
and what do you want here?"
The man pulled himself together and faced us with an effort
at self-composure.
"You are detectives, I suppose?" said he. "You imagine I am
connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you
that I am innocent."
"We'll see about that," said Hopkins.
"First of all, what is your name?"
"It is John Hopley Neligan."
I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.
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