Brickett was puzzled—in fact, he was in a state of fog, and could not see his way at all clearly.
He said, in answer to the detective’s queries, that a dark-looking man, who was to all appearance a gipsy, had presented himself at the house just before closing time, and inquired if he could have a bed for a night or two.
The landlord answered in the affirmative, and the stranger, after partaking of some refreshment, retired to the room, No. 9, on the upper floor of the house.
This was all the landlord knew of his customer. He seemed, so Brickett declared, to be a quiet respectable sort of man enough.
Mr. Wrench did not offer any observations when this information was given, but he had his suspicions nevertheless.
The whole household had been so disturbed that there was but little rest for them during the remainder of the night.
The detective and our hero met in the morning, in the club-room, where they had their morning meal together.
“This has been a planned thing,” said Mr. Wrench to his companion; “that rascal would not have entered my room—opened the drawer of the bureau in which the case was deposited, and stolen the same, had he not been fully aware of both its importance and value. I do much regret that he was not captured.”
“I think you will act as wisely in keeping the affair as quiet as possible,” returned Peace. “What possible good could accrue from his being brought to justice? answer me that. None at all—it would have only been a needless and unnecessary exposure, at which the earl would have been greatly mortified.”
“There is some reason in that.”