"I daresay," said Hannasyde discouragingly.
"And he that hath a perverse tongue falleth into mischief," said Glass with a good deal of severity.
Whether this pessimistic utterance referred to himself or to the absent Sergeant, Hannasyde did not inquire. As Glass walked towards the door, the telephone-bell rang, and the voice of the constable on duty informed the Superintendent that Sergeant Hemingway was on the line.
The Sergeant sounded less gloomy than when Hannasyde had parted from him. "That you, sir?" he asked briskly. "Well, I've got something, though where it's going to lead us I don't see. Shall I come down?"
"No, I'm coming back to town; I'll see you there. Any luck with those prints?"
"Depends what you call luck, Super. Some of 'em belong to a bloke by the name of Charlie Carpenter."
"Carpenter?" repeated Hannasyde. "Who the dickens is he?"
"It's a long story - what you might call highly involved," replied the Sergeant.
"All right: reserve it. I'll be up in about half-anhour."
"Right you are, Chief. Give my love to Ichabod!" said the Sergeant.