"Yes, I fancy so," answered Oakes, with a smile on his face. "Why not? We are not the only bees around the honeysuckle."
"By George! I never thought of that," exclaimed Moore.
"Indeed!" retorted Oakes in dulcet tones. "Why should you? You have not played this game before—it is new to you."
"And does Hallen know, does he mistrust that O'Brien is a detective?"
Oakes laughed. "Boys, you're slow. Of course he does. He has even found out there is a well-known detective by the name of Larkin who is fond of the alias O'Brien. This Larkin has a scar under his hair in front. We will perhaps be able to identify O'Brien soon."
"What made you first mistrust?" I asked.
"Why, remember how curiously O'Brien acted when we hunted the robe—how indifferent he was—how he used dialect!"
"Yes, but why—how?"
"Well," interrupted Oakes, "that dialect was poor—unnatural, consequently perhaps assumed. That was the first clue to explain the curious actions of Maloney's loving friend, who has stuck to him like molasses to a fly's leg."
"Let us go into town and have dinner at the hotel," I cried, disgusted at my lack of perspicacity. My invitation was accepted with the usual alacrity of hungry men, and we soon were striding along—Hallen, Oakes and Moore in front and Dowd, Elliott and myself behind. We walked close together, discussing the events and joking at one another in great good-natured animal spirits, for things were coming to a head now and Broadway was not so far off after all.