Mr. Brunger stopped short in the midst of his note.
“Why, that's four gangs!”
The twisting of George's legs beneath the table was sympathetic with the struggles of his bewildered mind. He said desperately, “Well, there are four gangs.”
The detective threw down his pencil. “You're making a fool of me!” he cried. “First you said two gangs, then three gangs—”
“You're making a fool of yourself,” George answered hotly. “If you knew anything about gangs you'd know they're always breaking up—quarrelling, and then rejoining, and then splitting again. If you can't follow, don't follow. Find the damned gangs yourself. You're a detective—I'm not. At least you say you are. You're a precious poor one, seems to me. You've not done much.”
In his bewilderment and fear my unfortunate George had unwittingly hit upon an admirable policy. Since first Mr. Marrapit had called Mr. Brunger it had sunk in upon the Confidential Inquiry Agent that indeed he was a precious poor detective. In the five days that had passed he had not struck upon the glimmer of a notion regarding the whereabouts of the missing cat. This was no hiding in cupboard work, no marked coin work, no following the skittish wife of a greengrocer work. It was the real thing—real detective work, and it had found Mr. Brunger most lamentably wanting. Till now, however, none had suspected his perplexity. He had impressed his client—had bounced, noted, cross-examined, measured; and during every bounce, note, cross-examination and measurement fervently had prayed that luck—or the reward—would help him stumble upon something he could claim as outcome of his skill. George's violent attack alarmed him; he drew in his horns.
“Ah! don't be 'ot,” he protested. “Don't be 'ot. Little misunderstanding, that's all. I follow you completely. Four gangs—I see. Four gangs. Now, sir.”
It was George's turn for fear. “Four gangs—quite so. Well, what do you want me to tell you?”
“Start from the beginning, sir.”
George started—plunged head-first. For five minutes he desperately gabbled while Mr. Brunger's pencil bounded along behind his splashing; words. Every time the pencil seemed to slacken, away again George would fly and away in pursuit the pencil would laboriously toil.