“Bad habit,” and Furneaux crooked a waggish forefinger at him. “Even the wisest among us may err. Last night, for instance, I blundered. I really fancied I had a clew to the Steynholme murderer. And where do you think it ended? In the loft of your club-room, Mr. Tomlin. In a box of old clothes at that. Silly, isn’t it?”
“Wot! Them amatoor play-hactin’ things?”
“Exactly.”
Elkin grunted, though intending to laugh.
“Not so sharp for a London ’tec, I must say,” he cried. “Why, those props have been there since before Christmas.”
“Yes. I know now,” was the downcast reply. “Twelve hours ago I thought differently. Didn’t I, Mr. Tomlin?”
Tomlin tried hard to look knowing.
“Oh, is that wot you wur drivin’ at?” he said. “Dang me, mister, I could soon ha’ put you right ’ad you tole me.”
“Well, well. Can’t be helped. I may do better in London. What do you say, Mr. Ingerman? The City is the real mint of money and crime. Who knows but that a stroll through Cornhill may have some bearing on the Steynholme mystery?”
“May be you’d get a bit nearer if you took a stroll along the Knoleworth Road, and not so very far, either,” guffawed Elkin.