“I—I think there’s a mistake,” stammered the cook.
“Oh,” said the old man. “Ha! is there? Pretty detective you are. I’ll bring an action against you. I’ll have you imprisoned and dismissed the force.”
“It’s all a mistake,” said the cook; “I’m not a detective.”
“Come this way,” said the old man, rising.
The cook followed him into a smaller room at the back.
“You’re not a detective?” said the old man, as he motioned him to a seat. “I suppose you know that impersonating a detective is a serious offence? Just stay here while I fetch a policeman, will you?”
The cook said he wouldn’t.
“Ah,” said the old man with a savage grin, “I think you will.” Then he went to the door and called loudly for “Roger.”
Before the dazed cook of the Seamew could collect his scattered senses a pattering sounded on the stairs, and a bulldog came unobtrusively into the room. It was a perfectly bred animal, with at least a dozen points about it calling for notice and admiration, but all that the cook noticed was the excellent preservation of its teeth.
“Watch him, Roger,” said the old man, taking a hat from a sideboard. “Don’t let him move.”