He paused dramatically. His audience gazed at the fireplace with complete apathy—except Mrs. Higgins, who emitted a slight snore and dropped her head upon her ample bosom.
"What do you find, I say?" reiterated her husband.
"Well, what?" Alf asked when the pause had grown too painful to be borne any longer.
"What? Why, 'eaps of things," returned his sire rather feebly. "It's all wrong. The country's full o' spies, for one thing. Full of 'em. 'Ow do we know 'oo's a spy an' 'oo isn't?—tell me that. Look 'ere, at this 'ere Denmore Manor business. We've 'ad the papers full o' that for a week past, an' not a single arrest made. It's my belief that Capital won't let 'em make any arrests, that's what I think. Disgustin', I call it!"
"'Ow d'you know there was spies at Denmore Manor?" asked Alf, in whom the innocent accusation rankled deeply.
"Didn't it say there was niggers? An' didn't the paper 'ave a picture o' the little boy as they kidnaped—'e said they was spies, an' 'e ought to know, 'e ought. An' yet them blighters is allowed to escape, an' they must be all over the country now, an' yet nothing's done."
"What's the paper say?" asked Bill calmly.
Mr. Higgins, much pleased, puffed out his chest and read.
"'The mystery of the whereabouts of the late occupants of Denmore Manor continues to arouse a great deal of public interest. No light has yet been thrown either on the reason for its occupation or upon the method whereby these mysterious people have made good their escape. The police have now a strong clew as to the identity of the ringleaders, and they are following this up.' And I 'ope to 'Eaven," concluded the reader piously, "as 'ow it'll come to something. But I'll bet it's a blinkin' washout. The police is no good."
Alf and Bill stared blankly at one another.