"Bet you a level fiver I'm married this year. Now, put up
or shut up!"
Furneaux peeped in, through a door, always open, which led to the stairs.
"Can I have my account, Mr. Tomlin?" he said. "I'm going to town by the
next train."
"You don't mean to say, Mr. Furneaux, that you are abandoning the case so
soon?" broke in Ingerman.
"Did I say that?" inquired the detective meekly.
"No. One can't help drawing inferences occasionally."
"Great mistake. Look at our worthy landlord. He's been drawing inferences
as well as corks, and he's beat to the world."
Tomlin was, indeed, gazing at his smaller guest open-mouthed.
"S'elp me!" he gurgled. "I could ha' sworn--"
"Bad habit," and Furneaux crooked a waggish forefinger at him. "Even the
wisest among us may err. Last night, for instance, I blundered. I really
fancied I had a clew to the Steynholme murderer. And where do you think
it ended? In the loft of your club-room, Mr. Tomlin. In a box of old
clothes at that. Silly, isn't it?"
"Wot! Them amatoor play-hactin' things?"
"Exactly."
Elkin grunted, though intending to laugh.
"Not so sharp for a London 'tec, I must say," he cried.
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