"Well, sir," retorted Bawdsey, shrugging his shoulders. "I had to get at the truth somehow, and detective's work is not all so honorable as novelists make out. I got Margery alone."
"And how did you set to work?"
"Well, it was this morning in the sitting-room. Miss Bull had gone out and had left Margery to make up some accounts. The girl was laboring away at them and getting into a hopeless mess. I came to speak with her, and offered to do them. I soon put the accounts to rights and then began to talk of Miss Bull."
"Why of Miss Bull?"
"Why--" Bawdsey pinched his lip--"I thought at the time that Margery was guilty, and that if in talking to her I laid the blame on Miss Bull that the girl would speak out."
"You traded on the poor wretch's friendship. Bawdsey, I'm ashamed of you."
"I'm ashamed of myself," replied the detective, penitently; "but Lord bless you! Mr. Vane, one gets used to this sort of thing. In our business the means justifies the ends far more than in religion."
"I certainly don't think it justifies any end in religion," said George, sharply. "Well, you accused Miss Bull of the crime?"
"In a way I did. Margery denied it."
"What did you say?"