“All very well as far as Thompson is concerned. But Thompson is not the Yellow Dog.”
John Steadman shrugged his shoulders.
“Sometimes I have doubted whether he were not.”
The inspector looked at him with a curious smile.
“I don't think you have, sir. I think your suspicions went the same way as mine from the first.”
Steadman nodded. “But suspicion is one thing and proof another.”
“And that is a good deal nearer than it was,” the inspector finished. “The Yellow Dog's arrest is not going to be as easy a matter as Thompson's, though, Mr. Steadman. By Jove! those fellows have got it already.”
They were passing a little news-shop where the man was putting out the placards: “Crow's Inn Tragedy—arrest of Thompson.” Further on—“Crow's Inn Mystery—Arrest of absconding clerk at Southampton—Thompson at Bow Street—Story of his Career—Astounding Revelations!”
“Pure invention!” said the inspector, flicking this last with his stick. “I should like to put an end to half these evening rags.”
“I wonder what his history has been!” Steadman said speculatively. “I am sorry for his daughter—and Tony Collyer too. This will put an end to that affair, I fancy.”