"I have
caught one of the Phoenix Park murderers," he told me triumphantly
in Russian, visions of the possible ten thousand pounds wreathing
his face in smiles. I jumped up incredulously. He went on to
inform me that a man had landed from the Stockholm steamer early
that morning. Though he declared that he had no arms with him, a
revolver and a dagger had been found in his trunk. His passport
had only been issued at the British Legation in Stockholm, and his
description tallied exactly with the signalment issued by Scotland
Yard in eight languages. The policier showed me the description:
"height about five feet nine; complexion sallow, with dark eyes.
Thickset build; probably with some recent cuts on face and hands."
The policeman declared that the cuts were there, and that it was
unquestionably the man wanted. Then he put the question point-
blank, would the Embassy sanction this man's arrest? I was only
twenty-five at the time. I had to act on "my own," and I had to
decide quickly. "Yes, arrest him," I said, "but you are not to
take him to prison.
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