"Thieving."
"That sounds reprehensible—and rude."
"If you were not beyond reproach, it would be rude, Mr. Stafford."
Stafford chafed at the rather superior air of the expert, whose habit of bedside authority was apt to creep into his social conversation; but, while he longed to give him a shrewd thrust, he forbore. It was hard to tell how much he might have to do to prevent the man from making mischief. The compliment had been smug, and smugness irritated Stafford.
"Well, thanks for your testimonial," he said, presently, and then he determined to cut short the tardy revelation, and prick the bubble of mystery which the great man was so slowly blowing.
"I take it that you think some one at Glencader stole your needle, and so saved your collie's life," he said.
"That is what I mean," responded Mr. Mappin, a little discomposed that his elaborate synthesis should be so sharply brought to an end.
There was almost a grisly raillery in Stafford's reply. "Now, the collie—were you sufficiently a fatalist to let him live, or did you prepare another needle, or do it in the humdrum way?"
"I let the collie live."
"Hoping to find the needle again?" asked Stafford, with a smile.