The detective said less than any man with whom I've ever spent the same length of time.
But I believe he took it all in!
"Then there were the Ballycool murders, when they were as near as dash it to hanging the wrong man," pursued Mr. James Burke. "Of course, that was when my grandfather was a boy. So that particular show-up would be before your time, officer, possibly."
"Eighteen Sixty-Two, sir," said the detective briefly.
"Ah, yes, I remember," mused the Honourable Jim, who, I suppose, must have been born about Eighteen Hundred and Eighty-Seven himself. "Ah, yes; but then, some aspects of life, and love, and law don't seem to alter much, do they?"
"That's correct, Mr. Burke," said Mr. Hiram P. Jessop again in his most empressé American.
"Then," pursued the ineffable Irish voice as we whizzed along, "there's that case of the Indian tray that was missing from that wealthy bachelor's rooms—but I misremember the exact end of that story.
"Plenty of them on record in this country as well as America. I daresay you agree with me, Jessop?"
Mr. Jessop, sitting there in the hurrying car, seemed to be agreeing with everything that Mr. Burke chose to say.
The young American, from what glimpses I caught of his firm, short, Dana-Gibson-like profile against the blue night sky, was full of the tenderest and most rueful concern for the little cousin who was involved in this pretty kettle of fish.