The sleuth’s jaw dropped limply, as if he had received a blow.
“What?” he said, in a feeble voice.
“Didn’t I tell you——” began Mr. McEachern; but the sleuth was occupied with Jimmy. That sickening premonition of disaster was beginning to steal over him. Dimly he began to perceive that he had blundered.
“Yes,” said Jimmy. “Why, I can’t say; but Mr. McEachern was afraid some one might try to steal Lady Julia Blunt’s rope of diamonds, so he wrote to London for this man Galer. It was officious, perhaps, but not criminal. I doubt if, legally, you could handcuff a man for a thing like that. What have you done with good Mr. Galer?”
“I’ve locked him in the coal-cellar,” said the detective dismally. The thought of the interview in prospect with the human bloodhound he had so mishandled was not exhilarating.
“Locked him in the cellar, did you?” said Jimmy. “Well, well, I dare say he’s very happy there. He’s probably busy detecting black-beetles. Still, perhaps you had better go and let him out. Possibly if you were to apologise to him—— Eh? Just as you think—I only suggest. If you want somebody to vouch for Mr. McEachern’s non-burglariousness, I can do it. He is a gentleman of private means, and we knew each other out in New York.”
“I never thought——”
“That,” said Jimmy, with sympathetic friendliness, “if you will allow me to say so, is the cardinal mistake you detectives make. You never do think.”
“It never occurred to me——”
He took the key of the handcuffs from his pocket and toyed with it. Mr. McEachern emitted a low growl. It was enough.