“I’m coming to that,” said the policeman severely. “We don’t allow of the Press reporting more’n a quarter of them. No, sir. That’s wot it ’as come to, these larst few days. A more painful situation ’as rarely arisen in the hannals of British crime. The un’eard-of bestiality of the criminal may well baffle ordinary minds like yours and mine.”
“I don’t believe a word of it!” snapped Mr. Trevor.
“Ho, you don’t!” said the policeman. “You don’t!”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Trevor, “I don’t. Do you mean to stand there and tell me that I wouldn’t ’ave ’eard—I mean, have heard of this criminal if he had really existed?”
“You’re a gent,” said the policeman.
“You’ve said it,” said Mr. Trevor.
“And gents,” said the policeman, “know nothing. And what they do know is mouldy. Ever ’eard of Jack the Ripper?”
“Yes, I ’ave,” said Mr. Trevor bitterly.
“Have is right, sir, if you’ll excuse me. Well, Jack’s death was never rightly proved, not it! So it might well be ’im at ’is old tricks again, even though ’e has been retired, in a manner of speaking, these forty years. Remorseless and hindiscriminate murder, swift and sure, was Jack’s line, if you remember, sir.”
“Before my time,” said Mr. Trevor gloomily.