“He’s got wark,” his mother explained.
“So I think,” was my dry rejoinder. I looked over the house, and finally under the bed found a parcel tied up in brown paper.
“He brocht it in last nicht,” his mother simply remarked. “He’s keeping it to obleege a freend.”
I opened the parcel, and found it contained part of the stolen goods. I was explaining this to the mother when Jim appeared in working garb for his breakfast. He changed colour at once, and sat down, or rather dropped down, into a seat by the fire.
“It’s all up, Jim,” I said with some pity. “I told you I’d have you soon.”
He stared at me, not in resentment, but with a strange, thoughtful look in his eyes. “Have I been sold?” he at last inquired, rather quietly. “Did he—I mean—did anyone betray me?”
“No,” I promptly answered, believing what I said. “Have you your knife about you?”
He dived his hand into his pocket, and then appeared to reflect.
“You needn’t look there for it,” I remarked. “I’ll find it for you when we get up to the office.”
“I had it yesterday—I’m sure I had it yesterday,” he said, after a horrible pause.