The detective had pocketed his revolver at the first sound of the handle—to be discreet was one of the chief articles in the creed of the young men from Wragge’s Detective Agency—but handcuffs are not easily concealed. Jimmy stood staring in amazement at McEachern’s wrists.
“Some sort of a round game?” he inquired with interest.
The detective became confidential.
“It’s this way, Mr. Pitt. There’s been some pretty deep work going on here. There’s a regular gang of burglars in the place. This chap here’s one of them.”
“What, Mr. McEachern?”
“That’s what he calls himself.”
It was all Jimmy could do to keep himself from asking Mr. McEachern whether he attributed his downfall to drink. He contented himself with a sorrowful shake of the head at the fermenting captive. Then he took up the part of counsel for the defence.
“I don’t believe it,” he said. “What makes you think so?”
“Why, this afternoon I caught this man’s pal—the fellow that calls himself Galer——”
“I know the man,” said Jimmy. “He’s a detective really. Mr. McEachern brought him down here.”