“Not he,” said the detective, coolly picking the dust of the fray from his coat. “A mercy he didn’t one of us. You’re all right, sir?”
“Yes. And you?”
“A bit scorched—no more. I wonder at you, Lightfoot. You’ve made a bad mess of this business, my lad.”
Gilead uttered a sudden cry.
“It’s there! Look!”
The room was empty, save for a common chair or two and a bare deal table; and in the middle of the latter lay a single folded parrakeet skin, green, with a rose and black collar round its neck.
He stood staring a moment, then went and lifted and balanced the thing in his hand. And, so holding it, he turned, with a lost expression on his face.
“Why,” he said, “I must have miscalculated after all, and she’s been here before us.”
The detective uttered a quick exclamation:—
“Look at the man! What’s taken him?”