“Send for me,” repeated Dempsi deliberately. “I haven’t killed a man for years. But I will not speak of that. I am too sorry for his wife and family. I have a tender heart.” He gazed at Julius in admiration. “So you are a detective! One of that great and silent army of watchers, everlastingly on duty, standing between peaceable citizens like Guiseppi Dempsi and the vultures who prey upon society!”
Dempsi held out his hand. Mr. Superbus, his eyes modestly lowered, took it. He felt for once that he was being taken at a proper valuation. Dempsi was a man of the world, a Sir Hubert whose praise was praise indeed. Julius made a mental note of the words for future exhibition.
At any moment Dempsi might switch off to an unimportant subject.
“Yes, it is a bit of a job,” agreed Julius. “The public don’t understand.”
“They wouldn’t,” said Mr. Dempsi scornfully.
“We take some risks,” Mr. Superbus went on. “You can’t get about town without taking risks—I was nearly run over by a ’bus yesterday.”
Dempsi was impressed.
“No!”
Julius nodded.
“I was—in the execution of me duty,” he said. “I saw a suspicious looking man—he looked like a fellow that had been owing me money for years—and crossed the road to have a look at him.” His gesture suggested a swerving motor ’bus. “As near as that,” he said simply but impressively.