“A tall, stout gentleman, with big bushy whiskers,” answered the shopman.
“Well, this is a sell,” murmured another constable. “Why I’m blessed if that fellow wasn’t the burglar.” Then, turning to the man who had kept guard at the door, “You had no right to let him go, Jenkins. It was your duty to detain him.”
“Don’t blame me—it’s no fault of mine. Why I could have sworn he was the master; so would anybody.”
“You had no right to let him go.”
“But I don’t know that he has gone.”
There was a loud peal of laughter at this declaration. Everybody is so clever after a mistake has been made and discovered.
And this was clearly a very great mistake.
A search was at once made in every direction for the missing robber; bull’s eyes were flashed in all directions, the adjacent streets underwent inspection, as did also several houses which were known to be the resort of thieves, but Peace was by far too artful a rascal to seek refuge in any of these; it was not his practice to do so at any period of his life.
The police were at fault. There was, however, one consolation. Nothing had been stolen. Not an article of any description had been removed from the premises.
On the contrary, something had been left behind—this being our hero’s coat and hat, which the police took possession of as trophies.