“Thenk Gord!” said Frederick. “Thenk Gord! I've pretty well busted myself over this game.”
Mr. Fletcher said nothing; drew his snail from his pocket; plunged head downwards in a bush. Woe sat heavy upon him; beneath the indignity and labour of thrusting at stranger cats with a clothes-prop this man had grievously suffered.
V.
The Rose was stolen. That was Mr. Brunger's discovery after examination of the window-latch where George's knife had marked it, the sill where George's boots had scratched it. Outside the great detective searched for footmarks—they had been obliterated by heavy rainfall between the doing of the hideous deed and its discovery. Upon the principle of impressing his client, however, Mr. Brunger grovelled on the path with tape measure and note-book; measured every pair of boots in the house; measured the window; measured the room; in neat little packets tied up specimens of the gravel, specimens of the turf, specimens of hair from the Rose of Sharon's coat, picked from her bed.
It was six o'clock when he had concluded. By then George had returned; the three held council in the study. Addressing Mr. Marrapit, Mr. Brunger tapped his note-book and his little packages. “We shall track the culprit, never fear, Mr. Marrapit,” he said. “My impression is that this is the work of a gang—a gang.”
“Precisely my impression,” George agreed.
Mr. Brunger took the interruption with the gracious bow of one who condescends to accept a pat on the back from an inferior. Mr. Marrapit twisted his fingers in his thin hair; groaned aloud.
“A gang,” repeated Mr. Brunger, immensely relishing the word. “We detectives do not like to speak with certainty until we have clapped our hands upon our men; we leave that for the amateurs, the bunglers—the quacks of our profession.” The famous confidential inquiry agent tapped the table with his forefinger and proceeded impressively. “But I will say this much. Not only a gang, but a desperate gang, a dangerous, stick-at-nothing gang.”
Mr. Marrapit writhed. The detective continued: “What are our grounds for this belief?” he asked. “What are our data?”
He looked at George. George shook his head. Easy enough, and useful, to acquiesce in the idea of a gang, but uncommonly hard to support the belief. He shook his head.