A cab dashed past them, its solitary passenger was Walters, a pinched-faced man, bareheaded, and on his face a tense, haggard look that immediately arrested the attention of the two men.
“Who did you say that was?” asked Carver quickly.
“Walters—old Trasmere’s sergeant,” replied Tab, “looks pretty scared to me.”
“Walters?” The detective stood stock still, thinking. “I know that man’s face. I’ve got him! Walter Felling!”
“Walter who?”
“Felling—he was through my hands ten years ago and he has been convicted since. Walters, as you call him, is an incorrigible thief! Old Trasmere’s servant, eh? That’s his speciality. He takes service with rich people and one fine morning they wake up to find their loose jewelry and money and plate gone. Did you notice the number of the cab?”
Tab shook his head.
“The question is,” said the detective, “has he made a get-away in a hurry, or is he on an urgent errand for his boss? Anyway we ought to see Trasmere. Shall we take a cab or walk?”
“Walk,” said Tab promptly. “Only the detectives of fiction take cabs, Carver. The real people know that when they present their cab bills to the head office, a soulless clerk will question each item.”
“Tab, you certainly know more about the interior economy of thief-catching than an outsider ought to know,” responded the detective gloomily.