her heart—it will break her heart when she hears that I am

arrested.”


“It may not come to that,” said Holmes.


“What?”


“I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who

required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young McCarthy

must be got off, however.”


“I am a dying man,” said old Turner. “I have had diabetes for

years. My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I

would rather die under my own roof than in a gaol.”


Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a bundle of

paper before him. “Just tell us the truth,” he said. “I shall

jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can witness it. Then I

could produce your confession at the last extremity to save young McCarthy. I

promise you that I shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed.”


“It’s as well,” said the old man; “it’s a

question whether I shall live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I

should wish to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to

you; it has been a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to tell.


“You didn’t know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate.

I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he. His grip

has been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my life. I’ll

tell you first how I came to be in his power.


“It was in the early ’60’s at the diggings. I was a young

chap then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got

among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took to the

bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a highway robber.

There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station

from time to time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings. Black

Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party is still remembered