"What d’you think of that? That’s not a pleasant thing for a gentleman as is doing his best to read, eh?"
"Well, it does seem queer that the police can’t catch him, now doesn’t it?" said Bunting argumentatively.
"I don’t think it’s queer at all," said young Chandler crossly. "Now you just listen again! Here’s a bit of the truth for once—in a newspaper." And slowly he read out:
"‘The detection of crime in London now resembles a game of blind man’s buff, in which the detective has his hands tied and his eyes bandaged. Thus is he turned loose to hunt the murderer through the slums of a great city.’"
"Whatever does that mean?" said Bunting. "Your hands aren’t tied, and your eyes aren’t bandaged, Joe?"
"It’s metaphorical-like that it’s intended, Mr. Bunting. We haven’t got the same facilities—no, not a quarter of them—that the French ’tecs have."
And then, for the first time, Mrs. Bunting spoke: "What was that word, Joe—‘perpetrators’? I mean that first bit you read out."
"Yes," he said, turning to her eagerly.
"Then do they think there’s more than one of them?" she said, and a look of relief came over her thin face.
"There’s some of our chaps thinks it’s a gang," said Chandler. "They say it can’t be the work of one man."
"What do you think, Joe?"
"Well, Mrs. Bunting, I don’t know what to think. I’m fair puzzled."
He got up. "Don’t you come to the door. I’ll shut it all right. So long! See you to-morrow, perhaps."
