"I have just taken her there," remarked the other coolly.
Winter was thoroughly nonplused. Everybody, everything, seemed to be mad. He was staring at Furneaux when Clarke entered. The newcomer's hat was tilted a little backward, and there was an air of business-like haste in him from the creak of his boot soles to the drops of perspiration shining on his brow. He contrived to hold himself back just long enough to say, "Hello, Furneaux!" and then his burden of news broke from him:
"Well, I've got Janoc under lock and key all right."
"Oh, you've got somebody, too, have you?" groaned Winter. "And on what charge, pray, have you collared Janoc?"
"Why, what a question!" cried Clarke. "Didn't I tell you, sir——?"
"So true," said Winter; "I had almost forgotten. You've grabbed Janoc, and the genius of Mr. Furneaux is sated by arresting Mr. Osborne——"
Clarke slapped his thigh vigorously, doubling up in a paroxysm of laughter.
"Osborne! Oh, not Osborne at this time of day!" He leered at Furneaux in comic wonder—he, who had never dared question aught done by the little man, save in the safe privacy of his thoughts.
"And I have arrested Pauline," said Winter in grim irony.
"Who has?" asked Clarke, suddenly agape.