The detective’s hair nearly rose on end at this statement.
“Look here, Mr. Bruce!” he cried, “have you any more startlers up your sleeve, or is that the finish?”
“That is the last shot in my locker.”
“I’m jolly glad! I half expected the next thing you would say was that you did the job yourself.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you thought that; eh, my friend?”
White positively blushed.
“Oh! that’s chaff,” he said. “But why the dickens did the police lock up this cabman—the only witness we could lay our hands upon? Why, I myself questioned every cabman in the vicinity several times.”
“Because he got drunk on the proceeds of the journey, and subsequently thought he was Phaeton driving the chariot of the sun. But, there, he will tell you himself. I met him yesterday morning outside Holloway Jail, and persuaded him to come here to-night, provided he has not gone on the spree again with disastrous results.”
The entrance of Smith—obviously relieved to see his master and the “tec” on such good terms—to announce the arrival of “Mr. William Marsh,” settled any doubts as to the cabman’s intentions, and his appearance established the fact of his sobriety. Three months “hard” had made the cab-driver a new man.