“Not at all, Cripp. And the poor creature we suspected of taking it proves to be a very respectable old body indeed, nothing of the tramp about her. You—you have not gone any lengths yet with that professional gentleman, I hope!” added the Squire, dropping his voice to a confidential tone.
Cripp paused for a minute, as if not understanding.
“We have not employed any professional man at all in the matter,” said he; “have not thought of doing so.”
“I don’t mean that, Cripp. You know. The gentleman you suspected of having bought the earring.”
Cripp stared. “I have not suspected any one.”
“Goodness me! you need not be so cautious, Cripp,” returned the Squire, somewhat nettled. “Eccles made a confidant of me. He told me all about it—except the name.”
“What Eccles?” asked Cripp. “I really do not know what you are talking of, sir.”
“What Eccles—why, your Eccles. Him you sent over to me on Sunday afternoon: a well-dressed, gentlemanly man, with a black moustache. Detective Eccles.”
“I do not know any Detective Eccles.”
“Dear me, my good man, you must be losing your memory!” retorted the Squire, in wrath. “He came straight to me from you on Sunday; you sent him off in haste without his dinner.”