“Den I hears him—de foist mug—strike a light, ’cos it’s dark dere ’cos of de storm, an’ den he says, ‘Got youse, have I?’ he says. ‘I’ve had my eye on you, t’inkin’ youse was up to somet’ing of dis kind. I’ve bin watchin’ youse!’ I knew de voice. It’s dat mug what calls himself Sir Tummas’s vally. And de odder——”
Jimmy burst into a roar of laughter.
“Don’t, Spike! This is more than man was meant to stand. Do you mean to tell me that it is my bright, brainy, persevering friend Galer who has been handcuffed and locked in the coal-cellar?”
“Sure, dat’s right,” he said.
“It’s a judgment,” said Jimmy delightedly—“that’s what it is. No man has a right to be such a consummate ass as Galer. It isn’t decent.”
There had been moments when McEachern’s faithful employé had filled Jimmy with an odd sort of fury, a kind of hurt pride, almost to the extent of making him wish that he really could have been the desperado McEachern fancied him. Never in his life before had he sat still under a challenge, and this espionage had been one. Behind the clumsy watcher he had seen always the self-satisfied figure of McEachern. If there had been anything subtle about the man from Dodson’s he could have forgiven him; but there was not. Years of practice had left Spike with a sort of sixth sense as regarded representatives of the law. He could pierce the most cunning disguise. But in the case of Galer even Jimmy could detect the detective.
“Go on,” he said.
Spike proceeded.
“Well, de odder mug, de one down and out on de floor wit de irons on——”
“Galer, in fact,” said Jimmy. “Handsome, dashing Galer!”