“And who may that be, sir?” asked Freyberger, a sudden glitter coming into his eye.
“Klein.”
“Ah!”
“Müller, Kolbecker—call him what you will.”
“So!”
“You do not seem as jubilant as one might expect.”
“I am not jubilant, sir; I would swear not to laugh again until I have this man by the shoulder, only the oath would be unnecessary. I am not jubilant, but I am glad. May I have the details of this crime?”
“A man named Bronson, a farm-labourer, fifty years of age, has been found stabbed to death in a field at Sonning.”
“Stabbed!”
“Stabbed; there was no apparent motive for the crime, and the body was hacked as if by a maniac.”