“But you have not told me your informant.”
“Oh, there’s no secret about it, sir. Servant chap went to the bad, and lost his character. Old friend of your footman here who was killed. He picks up with a couple of regular cracksmen, and tells all he knows about the house, and they put up the job.”
“Yes, yes. I see. Well?”
“They get in, and catch a Tartar, for this chap was cut down by some one here, and his mates got him away to a wretched hole, where the people were so frightened that they gave information to the police that a man was dying on their premises. Police took him to the hospital, and when he found out how bad he was, he made a clean breast of it all. That’s it, sir. Plain as A, B, C.”
Mr Girtle sat looking at the officer, curiously.
“Do you think,” he said at last, “that these men committed the other robbery?”
The detective’s eyes twinkled, but not a muscle moved.
“I should think it about certain, sir.”
“Have you got the man’s companions?”
“Yes, sir, both of them, safe enough.”