"Sent for you, sir," said Mr. Headland, innocently. "Never thought of such a thing. Lennard must have made a mistake. I asked for Mr. Narkom to come, as I can't find anything more out, and am giving up the job. But this canary fair beats me...."
"I suggest having it stuffed, sir," put in the landlord, thoughtfully. "We've got the man here that'll do it, in a trice."
"Why, of course," said Bristol, patiently, turning in the direction of the bar. "Old Twells, the very man."
"The very thing," said Cleek, and switching round on his heel looked interestedly at the old gray-haired man to whom the landlord was evidently explaining the situation. Then, as he came over to them, Cleek turned to Mr. Narkom. "If you'd get the cage out of the locker in the car, sir, we could stick it on its blessed perch and make a good job of it. Here's the key; I think it's the right one."
Whether it was the right one or not Mr. Narkom looked down on the label attached to it, and seeing the message that Cleek had scribbled on it, ran out of the place as fast as legs could carry him.
When he returned Mr. Headland was still directing the taxidermist as to what he was to do and how and when to do it.
"Did you find it, sir?" he asked as Mr. Narkom rushed in, his face red with excitement.
"Yes, exactly where you said, Cleek," cried the Superintendent, blurting out the name unconsciously in his agitation.
A little gasp of interest sounded, but Cleek took no heed. With shining eyes and mouth set in a thin red line he switched round on his heel, his voice sounding clear and sharp:
"Game's up, my boy; stand aside, Bristol. It's no use trying to shield yourself or your accomplice. I want you both."