“No. I disagree with you. It is proved that the guilty one is a well-dressed man, and the success of his sanguinary work has been such as to encourage him to commit further crimes; therefore, the logical deduction is that he will remain in England and continue them,” Latimer replied. “What do you think?” he added, turning to me.
“I don’t think anything about it, except that I heartily wish I’d never been mixed up with it at all,” I said.
“I should have liked it myself,” exclaimed Bob Nugent, with an eye to the manufacture of sensational “copy.” The remark created a laugh.
“Well; joking aside,” he continued, “very few of you fellows who are pressmen would have objected to being on the scene of the tragedy. Sensational writing is the living of most of us, and if Burgoyne were in the position he once occupied, he would have been eager enough for the chance.”
”‘Them’s just my sentiments,’” said Moreland, who was on the staff of a comic journal, and fancied himself the wit of the Club. “But, you see, Burgoyne is no longer one of us; he’s one of the ‘bloated aristocracy,’ as he used to call the wealthy at one time.”
“True,” I said, smiling. “I know from experience that such mysteries are an unqualified blessing to the impecunious journalist. The worst of it is that I’ve grown so confoundedly idle now, I really have nothing with which to occupy my time.”
“But you have plenty of work of a character that will benefit mankind, if you’ll only do it,” observed Nugent.
“What’s that?”
“Find the author of the crimes. You have seen him, and it only remains for you to turn amateur detective. By the exercise of a little patience you will be able to identify the wretch and bring his guilt home to him.”
“Impossible,” I remarked, though the suggestion was one which had not crossed my mind before, and I felt inclined to give it some consideration, as I had grown listless and lazy, and required something to occupy my mind.