A drunken man is not usually a problem so difficult that it is necessary to requisition the services of an Assistant-Commissioner. This much T. B. pointed out to the detective who awaited him at the corner of St. James's Square.
"But this man is different," said the officer; "he's well dressed; he has plenty of money—he gave the cab-driver a sovereign—and he talks."
"Nothing remarkable in that, dear lad," said T. B. reproachfully; "we all talk."
"But he talks business, sir," persisted the officer; "boasts that he's got Bronte's bank in his pocket."
"The devil he does!" T. B.'s eyebrows had a trick of rising. "Did he say anything else?"
"The second time he came," said the detective, "the butler pushed him down the steps, and that seemed to annoy him—he talked pretty freely then, called Sir George all the names he could lay his tongue to, and finished up by saying that he could ruin him."
T. B. nodded.
"And Sir George? He could not, of course, hear this unpleasant conversation? He would be out of earshot."
"Beg pardon, sir," said the plain-clothes man, "but that's where you're mistaken. I distinctly saw Sir George through the half-opened door. He was standing behind his servant."
"It's a pity——" began T. B., when the detective pointed along the street in the direction of the Square.