"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—"
The detective looked uneasily at Mr. McEachern. There were indications in the policeman's demeanor that the moment following release would be devoted exclusively to a carnival of violence, with a certain sleuth-hound playing a prominent role.
He took the key of the handcuffs from his pocket, and toyed with it. Mr. McEachern emitted a low growl. It was enough.
"If you wouldn't mind, Mr. Pitt," said the sleuth, obsequiously. He thrust the key into Jimmy's hands, and fled.
Jimmy unlocked the handcuffs. Mr. McEachern rubbed his wrists.
"Ingenious little things," said Jimmy.
"I'm much obliged to you," growled Mr. McEachern, without looking up.
"Not at all. A pleasure. This circumstantial evidence thing is the devil, isn't it? I knew a man who broke into a house in New York to win a bet, and to this day the owner of that house thinks him a professional burglar."
"What's that?" said Mr. McEachern, sharply.