The detective peered rather closely. Mr. Van Pycke drew back and glared at him through his glasses.
"By thunder, they don't fit him, do they? Say, there's something wrong with you guys. Where'd you get them pants, you?"
"Me?" murmured Mr. Van Pycke.
"Yes, you!"
"I'll have you pitched from this house, you impertinent scoundrel!" roared Mr. Van Pycke, threatened with apoplexy.
"Where'd you get them pants?" repeated the sleuth, steadily. "And them shoes! Say, this has a queer look. I'll have to—here! What's the matter with you? What you laughin' at? It won't be so blamed funny, young feller, let me tell you that. You guys can't—"
"You're a fine detective, you are," laughed Bosworth.
"I'm Doxey, the star man of the agency," retorted the detective, angrily.
"It's a wonder my father isn't wearing your trousers, Mr. Doxey. It would have been quite as easy, and I really think they'd fit him better than they fit you. Don't lose your temper, please. Good detectives never lose their tempers. Please remember that. Now, if you'll be good enough to cast your eyes upon that shameless person near the cabinet over there, you'll—"
"Great Scott!" gasped Mr. Doxey, his eyes bulging.