Hood, lingering in the hall, could be heard warning Briggs against the further accumulation of fat. He recommended a new system of reducing, and gave the flushed and stuttering butler the name of a New York specialist in dietetics whom he advised him to consult without delay.
The chauffeur’s lips twitched and, catching Deering’s eye, he winked. Deering tapped his forehead. Cassowary shook his head.
“Don’t you believe it!” he ejaculated with spirit.
At this moment Hood appeared on the steps, banging his recovered stick noisily as he descended.
“The Barton Arms, Cassowary,” he ordered, and they set off at a lively clip.
III
On the steps of the Barton Arms an hour later Hood and Deering ran into two men who were just leaving the inn. Hood greeted them heartily as old acquaintances and remained talking to them while Deering went to ask for rooms.
“The suspicions of those fellows always tickle me,” he remarked as he joined Deering at the desk, where he scrawled “R. Hood, Sherwoodville,” on the register. “Detectives—rather good as the breed goes, but not men of true vision. Now and then I’ve been able to give them a useful hint—the slightest, mind you, and only where I could divert suspicion from some of my friends in the underworld. I always try to be of assistance to predatory genius; there are clever crooks and stupid ones; the kind who stoop to vulgar gun-work when their own stupidity gets them into a tight pinch don’t appeal to me. My artistic sensibilities are affronted by clumsy work.”