“It’s not trash,” said Sowerby, assuming that unnatural air of reflection which sat upon him so ill. “I’ve looked up the volumes of the Ludgate Magazine in our local library, and I’ve read all the series with much interest.”
Dunbar leaned forward, watching him frowningly.
“I should have thought,” he replied, “that you had enough to do without wasting your time in that way!”
“Is it a waste of time?” inquired Sowerby, raising his eyebrows in a manner which lent him a marked resemblance to a famous comedian. “I tell you that the man who can work out plots like those might be a second Jack-the-Ripper and not a soul the wiser!”…
“Ah!”
“I’ve never met a more innocent looking man, I’ll allow; but if you’ll read the ‘Adventures of Martin Zeda,’ you’ll know that”…
“Tosh!” snapped Dunbar, irritably; “your ideas of psychology would make a Manx cat laugh! I suppose, on the same analogy, you think the leader-writers of the dailies could run the Government better than the Cabinet does it?”
“I think it very likely”…
“Tosh! Is there anybody in London knows more about the inside workings of crime than the Commissioner? You will admit there isn’t; very good. Accordingly to your ideas, the Commissioner must be the biggest blackguard in the Me-
