“Oh, that, I think, there can be no doubt about, Crasher. One thing, however, is quite certain. We appear to be miserably behind hand as far as our detective department goes. Murder is rife in the land, crimes of the greatest possible amount of ferocity are committed, and the perpetrators, for some reason or other, are permitted to escape.”
“You have broached a subject, sir,” said Sir William Leathbridge, “which is an all important one—I mean the protection of human life—and I don’t believe that under the existing state of things the Government is competent to deal with this question. Why, it is a scandal to this nation.”
“You mean the number of murderers who escape detection.”
“I do.”
“Well, we shall do no good till a different class of men are employed and the whole system is reformed.”
“I’ve got a little bit of a story to tell about a New York detective,” said Sir William. “It happened when I paid a visit to the United States.”
Everybody, of course, hoped that Sir William would give the narrative, which he did after the following fashion—the details of which we reserve for the succeeding chapter.
CHAPTER CXXXIX.
SIR WILLIAM’S TALE—A MUSICAL MELANGE.
“There was at the time I paid a visit to our American cousins,” said Sir William, “a sharp, clever fellow named Dixon. He had gained a considerable amount of reputation as a detective, and I believe he well deserved the encomiums passed upon him. Any way, as far as I could judge, he was a remarkably acute man, and he was in addition to this a civil and obliging officer.