“Very likely,” said Guest. “Our friend is a naturalist, and uses spirits to preserve things in.”
“Look ye here,” said the workman oracularly, and he worked one hand about as he spoke. “I don’t purfess to know no more than what’s my trade, which is locks and odd jobs o’ that sort. My pardner here’ll tell you, gents, that I’ll face anything from a tup’ny padlock up to a strong room or a patent safe; but I’ve got a thought here as may be a bright ’un, or only a bit of a man’s nat’ral fog. You want to find this gent, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Guest; and the tone of that “yes” suggested plainly enough, “no.”
“What have you got in that wooden head of yours now, Jem?” growled the sergeant.
“Wait a minute, my lad, and you’ll hear.”
“There’s no occasion for us to stop here,” said Guest hurriedly.
“On’y a minute, sir, and then I’ll screw down the lid. What I wanted to say, gents, is: haven’t we found the party, after all?”
“What!” cried Guest. “Where?”
“Here, sir. I don’t understand sperrits—beer’s my line; but what I say is: mayn’t the gent be in there, after all, in slooshun—melted away in the sperrits, like a lump o’ sugar in a man’s tea?”
“No, he mayn’t,” said the sergeant, closing the lid with a bang. “Don’t you take no notice of him, gentlemen; he’s handled screws till he’s a reg’lar screw himself.”