"Sure!" said the other, without any great heartiness.
He was tired of this conversation and was anxious to know where it was leading.
"You're not in the private detective business for your health," said the colonel, and the man shook his head.
"I bet you're working for a firm that's paying you about three pounds a week and your miserable expenses—a perfect dog's life."
"You're quite right there," said the man, and he spoke with the earnestness of the ill-used wage-earner, "it is a dog's life; out in all kinds of weather, all hours of the day and night, and never so much as 'thank you' for any work you do. Why, we get no credit at all, sir. If we go into the witness-box, the lawyers treat us like dirt."
"I absolutely agree with you," said the colonel, shaking his head. "I think the private detective business in this country isn't appreciated as it ought to be. And it is very curious we should have met you," he went on; "only this evening I was saying to my friends here, that we ought to get a good man to look after our interests. You've heard about me, I'm sure, Mr.——"
"Snakit," said the other; "here's my card."
He produced a card from his waistcoat pocket, and the colonel read it.
"Mr. Horace Snakit," he said, "of Dooby and Somes. Now what do you say to coming into our service?"
The man blinked.