“In which case it seems to me that your proper course would be to notify the officers. Why don’t you go to Deputy Sheriff Pickle?”
“Haw!” cried Sleuth, contemptuously snapping his fingers. “That would be the height of folly. These rural officers are blockheads in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, and William Pickle is no exception. For instance, recall the bungling mess he made of it when he arrested your friend, Benjamin Stone. Only for me, Stone might have been convicted of a crime he never committed.”
“You helped get Ben out of an unpleasant predicament,” admitted Sage; “but in that case Pickle did his duty, according to instructions. If you are so positive that you’re not bungling in this case, you’ll require the assistance of Mr. Pickle, for you can’t expect to capture James Wilson unaided.”
“And so you would advise me to apply to Pickle? You would advise me to tell him my deductions, through which he would be enabled, perhaps, to capture this jail-breaker and get the reward of five hundred dollars? That’s what would happen if he made the capture; he’d claim the reward, and get it. Oh, I know Bill Pickle!”
“If you gave the information on which the man was arrested, doubtless you could claim and obtain a portion of the reward money.”
“Perhaps so, and perhaps not. I tell you I know Bill Pickle. He’d get it all if he could.”
“But, having talked with Roy Hooker of this matter, how do you expect to keep it secret long enough to do anything yourself?”
“I didn’t tell Hooker about James Wilson. I simply questioned him regarding the stranger, and learned enough to satisfy me that he and Wilson must be the same man.”
“Well, how did you happen to tell me so much?”
Sleuth hesitated. “You see, I—I thought it might be—well, different in your case,” he stumbled. “I fancied there might be reasons why you wouldn’t care to say anything about it.”