"It's Bart's," said Deborah, staring; "he was using it along with other tools to make some deal boxes for master, who was going away. I expect it was found in the cellar in the tool-box, for Bart allays brought it in tidy-like after he'd done his work in the yard, weather being fine, of course," ended Deborah, sniffing.
"Where is this Bart?"
"In bed like a decent man if he's to be my husband, which he is," said Miss Junk, tartly. "I told one of them idle bobbies to go and fetch him from Bloomsbury."
"One has gone," said another policeman. "Bart Tawsey isn't he?"
"Mr. Bartholemew Tawsey, if you please," said the servant, grandly. "I only hope he'll be here soon to protect me."
"You're quite safe," said Prince, dryly, whereat there was a smile on the faces of his underlings, for Deborah in her disordered dress and with her swollen, flushed, excited face was not comely. "But what about this brooch you say is the cause of it all?"
Deborah dropped with an air of fatigue. "If you kill me I can't talk of it now," she protested. "The brooch belonged to Mr. Paul Beecot."
"And where is he?"
"In the Charing Cross Hospital if you want to know, and as he's engaged to my pretty you needn't think he done it—so there."