“That’s only part of it. Tike last week: Eighteen pinched, the queer plant in ’Igh Street pulled by the coppers—”
“I know, I know. To your point!”
Seven hesitated under that steely stare. “I leave it to you, Gov’ner,” he continued to stammer at length. “S’y you was me and I was Number One—w’at would you think?”
“Why, quite naturally, that some superior intelligence has latterly been collaborating with Scotland Yard.”
“Aren’t you a bit behindhand in arriving at that conclusion?” the Irishman suggested with an ill-dissembled sneer.
“No, Eleven,” Number One replied, mildly, “since I arrived at it some time since.”
“But took no measures—”
“You are in a position to state that as a fact?”
Eleven shrugged lightly. “Need I be? Does not our situation speak for itself?”
“Since you cannot be as thoroughly acquainted as I am with the situation, and since it seems I am required to account for my leadership or surrender it to you, Eleven ... I believe you have selected yourself to replace me as Number One, have you not?—that is to say, in the improbable event of my abdication.”