I scarcely remember what Aunt Sarah said when she was told I was under arrest for the robbery. I know she broke a drawing-room chair, and had to be dragged off the floor on to the sofa by the detective and myself. But she got her speech pretty soon, and protested valiantly. It was a shameful outrage, she proclaimed, and the police were incapable fools. "While you've been doing nothing," she said, "my dear nephew has traced out the jewels and—and——"
"I've got the brooch, aunt!" I cried, for this seemed the dramatic moment. And I put it in her hand.
"I must have that, please," the detective interposed. "Do you identify it?"
"Identify it?" exclaimed Aunt Sarah, rapturously. "Of course I identify it! I'd know my Uncle Joseph's brooch among ten thousand! And his initials and his hair and all! Identify it, indeed! I should think so! And did you get it from Bludgeoning Bill himself, Clement, my dear?"
Now, "Bludgeoning Bill" was the name I had given the chief ruffian of my story; rather a striking sort of name, I fancied. So I said, "Yes—yes. That's the name he's known by—among his intimates, of course. The police" (I had a vague idea of hedging, as far as possible, with the detective)—"the police only know his—his other names, I believe. A—a very dangerous sort of person!"
"And did you have much of a struggle with him?" pursued Aunt Sarah, hanging on my words.
"Oh, yes—terrible, of course. That is, pretty fair, you know—er—nothing so very extraordinary." I was getting flurried. That detective would look at me so intently.
"And was he very much hurt, Clement? Any bones broken, I mean, or anything of that sort?"
"Bones? O, yes, of course—at least, not many, considering. But it serves him right, you know—serves him right, of course."
"Oh, I'm sure he richly deserved it, Clement. I suppose that was in the thieves' kitchen?"