"You're welcome, sir," he said, with a distinctly Irish accent. "We have heard all about you from our friend Marsden. My name is O'Brien—Inspector Patrick O'Brien. I am pleased to have the privilege of making your acquaintance."
"It's very nice of you to put it like that," said Colin. "I don't think I deserve any particular compliments, though. I only did what any one else would have done who had happened to be on the spot."
Both men smiled.
"That may be your impression," was the answer, "but you can take it from me that you're a trifle off the mark. Watching a police officer kicked to death is one of the public's favourite entertainments."
"O'Brien comes from Dublin, you see," put in Marsden, "so you must make allowances for a touch of bitterness." He pulled forward a chair, and, thrusting his hand into his pocket, produced a large rubber pouch. "Make yourself comfortable and try a pipe of this tobacco, doctor," he added. "It was given to me by a ship's captain, and they don't generally go far wrong—not from what I've seen of them."
Colin took the proffered seat, and, drawing out his briar, proceeded to fill it carefully with the fragrant brown flakes.
"I'm rather interested in 'Ginger Dick,'" he remarked. "One would hardly take him for a Napoleon of crime, judging by his appearance."
"No, his looks aren't anything to shout about," agreed Marsden. "All the same, he's a dangerous little devil if ever there was one. As I told you the other day, he's in with all the lowest scum of the Turf, and, thanks to him and his crowd, there are several of our boys on the retired list, and likely to remain there."
"It never occurred to me before," said Colin, "but I suppose there are healthier occupations than being a detective on a racecourse."
"You can back on that," was O'Brien's rejoinder. "I've had some of it myself, and, though I'm partial to what you may call an active life, I wasn't exactly sorry when they shifted me to another department."