“You don't look well,” Mr. Brunger told him, after greetings.
“Just what I was saying,” Bill joined.
Indeed, George looked far from well. Round-shouldered he sat upon the sofa, head in hands—a pallid face beneath a beaded brow staring out between them.
“It's the strain of this clue, Mr. Brunger,” Bill continued. “He's on the track!”
“You are?” cried the detective.
“Right on,” George said dully. “Right on the track.”
“Is it a gang?”
“Two,” George answered in the same voice. “Two gangs.”
The sagacious detective thumped the table. “I said so. I knew it. I told you so, Mr. Wyvern. But two, eh? Two gangs. That's tough. One got the cat and the other after it, I presume?”
“No,” said George. He was wildly thinking; to the conversation paying no attention.