“Why have you come here, then?” said Uncle Luke, harshly. “Do you think he has not suffered enough?”
The officer made no reply, but stood, note-book in hand, thinking. Then sharply:
“A person named Pradelle has been staying here.”
“Yes,” said Uncle Luke, with a snap of his teeth; “and if you had taken him instead of hunting down our poor boy you would have done some good.”
“All in good time, sir. I expect he was at the bottom of it all. Have you any information you can give me as to where he is likely to have gone?”
“Where do all scoundrels and thieves go to hide? London, I suppose.”
“I expected that,” said the officer, talking to Uncle Luke, but watching George Vine’s drawn, grief-stricken face the while. “I daresay we shall be able to put a finger upon him before long. He does not seem to have a very good record, and yet you gentlemen appear to have given him a welcome here.”
George Vine made a deprecating movement with his hands, the detective watching him keenly the while, and evidently hesitating over something he had to say.
“And now, sir,” said Uncle Luke, “you’ll excuse me if I ask you to go. This is not a time for cross-examination.”
“Eh? perhaps not,” said the officer sharply, as he gave the old man a resentful glance. Then to himself, “Well—it’s duty. He had no business to. I’ve no time for fine feelings.”