“You’re supposed——”
Goodall shrugged his shoulders. “If I don’t—my wife or some other damned good-natured friend will confront me with an article in the London press shrieking ‘the decadence of Scotland Yard.’ ”
Linnell looked at him curiously. To say the least he was impressed. That this sturdy and efficient police-representative would prove no mean antagonist he felt sure.
Mr. Day came bustling forward. “Druce is here, Inspector,” he announced.
“Bring him along here, Mr. Day.” Goodall’s eyes brightened perceptibly.
Druce came slowly forward—nervously plucking with his fingers at the cap he held in his hand. He was a wizened-faced man—of about sixty years of age. He had had no encounters with the Police before—all his life he had “kept honest”—and this new experience, therefore, had had a somewhat unsettling effect upon him.
“You are Edward Druce—one of the night-watchmen here?” commenced Goodall.
“Yes, sir.”
“How long have you worked here?”
Druce hesitated and half-turned towards Mr. Day. “Is it five or——?”