AT “SANDERSON’S HOTEL”—RECOLLECTIONS OF AN AMERICAN DETECTIVE.
After a little further conversation the two friends reached “Sanderson’s Hotel,” where Mr. Wrench spent the remainder of the evening with the American.
“I like the old country after all,” said Shearman, “though a good many of my countrymen run it down, and, as far as expert thieves are concerned, you beat us into an almighty smash.”
“That’s a very doubtful sort of compliment,” observed Wrench, with a smile, “but I will not attempt to deny the statement. I believe we do. A London rough is a match for any one in brutality.”
“By the way,” said Shearman, “what became of that horse-stealer, the gipsy, you were in search of? Did you ever find him?”
“No. Well, the fact is, I have given up the search. The gentleman from whom the horse was stolen don’t care about prosecuting now.”
“Why not?”
“He don’t—that’s all I know. The fact is, he was persuaded to do so by Bourne, and now the doctor’s dead he’s disposed to let the matter drop. He says Rawton is not so bad as he has been painted.”
“What’s your opinion?”
“If I am to speak the truth I am of the same opinion. It was nothing but spite, revenge, or whatever you may please to term it, that made Bourne so bitter with the gipsy.”