"Is it there—now—outside the room?"
"It was, but anyone mightn't see it."
"May we go and see?"
"Er—yes, I should think so—but be careful. You know, those—er—emanations can be very dangerous—a hostile aura, you know."
Three or four bold young men opened the door and crept cautiously into the hall. There was the sound of a scuffle and a high, indignant voice, familiar to two at least of the guests. The jaws of Mr. and Mrs. Brown dropped suddenly.
"Let go of me! Take your 'ole hands out of my pocket. Mind your own business! Well, I'm a detective, but I've not got any handcuffs. Leave go of me—I've left my bloodhound behind—that's not your stuff—well it isn't his'n—it's stole stuff. I've tooken it 'cause I'm a detective—let go of me, I say. Leave go of my dressing-gown, will you? I'll call the police—I say he's a robber, an' I bet he's a murderer—will you let go of me? He's a gang—look at his handkerchiefs—what d'you think of that—well, will you let go——?"
Still expostulating, William was dragged into the dining-room. Mr. Croombe covered his face with his hands.
"That's it," he said. "Don't bring it too near."
"It's the thief," said the young men excitedly. "Look at his pockets full of things!"
"Leave go of me!" said William, with rising irritability.