“Tobacco, the young spalpeen!” was McSweeny’s mental exclamation. “The boy that can smoke is fit for anything. Just wait a minit, my jewel, and I’ll frighten the very sowl out of ye.”
Having inspected Mr Stafford’s study, and made nothing of the work, McSweeny had no difficulty in working himself up into a fit of rage against the page.
“Just ring the bell, plase, for that boy in the tight jacket and buttons,” he said to Mr Stafford when they had returned to the sitting-room. The bell was rung, and the page appeared, when McSweeny grandly requested to be left alone with the quaking boy. Mr Stafford accordingly withdrew, when McSweeny elaborately took from his pocket first a note-book and pencil, and then a pair of handcuffs, which he clanked noisily down on the table before the boy’s eyes.
“Now, you boy—your name?” he sternly began.
“William Lister, sir,” said the page, visibly alarmed.
“Well, William, I’m the great detective McSweeny, and I’ve come here on a great case. You know what I can do to you, I suppose?”
“Ye—ye—yes, sir,” stammered the page, nearly crying, and shaking on his legs.
“Now look me in the face, sur,” and McSweeny grabbed the boy suddenly by the arm, and forced him down on his knees—no very difficult task—while he chained him with his fierce eyes. “Now, sur! you’ve been robbing your master!”
“No—no—no—sir!” cried the boy, clasping his hands in an agony of terror, and beginning to howl.
“You tuck them; I can see it in your eye,” sternly returned McSweeny. “Now, where have ye hid them? Out with it, or off to jail ye go!”