"There's no time for chattering," said I. "Take me at once before a
justice. That's the law, and you know it. I warn you that any delay will
be dangerous. My cocksure friend here is already in for actions for
assault, battery, slander, false imprisonment, and the Lord knows what. My
gad, sir, I'll give you a roasting at the assizes. Take me off at once to
the nearest magistrate. I'll have the law on you before another hour's
out."

My energy flustered the Londoner, who had sense enough to know the peril
of his being wrong, but the fat man, dull as an ox, cheered him on.

"He's Swift Nicks right enough, Master Wicks," he said. "Pocket full of
pistols, four on 'em; a chap of the right size, a matter of six feet odd;
hereabouts, where he is known to be; speaks like a gentleman; and, damme,
I saw Swift Nicks myself with my own eyes not two yards off, and that's
Swift Nicks' hat or I'm a Dutchman; I know'd it again the minute he walked
into the room."

"Damn the hat!" cried I heartily enough, but feeling very crestfallen at
this telling piece of evidence against me.

The little man snatched it up and looked carefully at the inside of it, a
thing I had never done, being wrapped up in its outside.

"There y'are!" he cried triumphantly. "'S. N. His hat.' What more d'ye
want?"

"I want the nearest magistrate," cried I.

"Well, Mr. Wicks," said the fat man, "he can easily have what he wants.