"But how does he know anything about what's in my pocket?" said the bewildered Monty....
Should I tell him? Why not? I had studiously avoided anything that might have reminded him of Mrs. Cunningham. Pluckily as he had taken himself in hand, I did not think that that wound was healed. But the episode of the pistol was another matter. I felt singularly and perhaps not quite justifiably light-hearted about that. The mists of the Case were perceptibly thinning. What he had just told me about Inspector Webster let still a little more sun through them. To all appearances the Inspector had dismissed Monty with a quite characteristic admonition. And that being so, it was perhaps his due that I should not leave Monty altogether unarmed in the event of any contingency with Westbury.
And so I told him how his pocket had been fingered as he had descended that ladder.
He was furious. "Damned pickpocket!" he broke out. "I should have thought these sharks made enough out of their filthy premiums nowadays without putting their hands right into your pockets!"
"I didn't say he did that exactly."
"It's the same thing. And anyway, how did he know? What made him think——?"
"Perhaps he saw you pick it up. Could he have done that from down below?"
"Might. I shouldn't have thought so though. Of course, I was flurried."
"But you wouldn't have thought it in Esdaile's case either," I reminded him.