"My jewels!" screamed Mrs. Croombe.
Mrs. Brown, meeting her son face to face in such circumstances, did the only possible thing. She fainted dead away and did not recover till the crisis was partially over.
William frenziedly accused Mr. Croombe of theft and murder. He referred to handcuffs and bloodhounds. He said wildly that he had had the house surrounded by police. It took about half an hour to convince him of his mistake.
"How do you know they're their own things? They only say so—I've seen him walking suspicious with a bag full of something. Well, how do you know he isn't a gang?"
William, at the head of the gaily-decorated table, pale and determined, in his dressing-gown, gesticulated wildly with his hands full of jewellery.
Mr. Croombe was apologetic and pleading, wistfully grateful to William for being real.
William—only gradually, and under the influence of a large and indigestible meal which Mr. Croombe insisted on giving him in proof of his gratitude—forgot his grievances.
Later, he found his father less sympathetic. Later still, he surveyed the world scornfully through his bedroom window, and thought of his family. It was no good trying to do anything with a family. The only thing was to cut loose from it altogether.
Mentally he surveyed the past evening. Everything was different in real life. What was the good of being a detective when everybody said the people hadn't done the things?
Real life was stupid.