and shot out, with military salute of hand to temple, two policeman—not in the least surprised themselves, not in the least surprising Mr. Superintendent.
"All right, Sharpeye?"
"All right, sir."
"All right, Trampfoot?"
"All right, sir."
"Is Quickear there?"
"Here am I, sir."
"Come with us."
"Yes, sir."
So, Sharpeye went before, and Mr. Superintendent and I went next, and Trampfoot and Quickear marched as rear-guard. Sharpeye, I soon had occasion to remark, had a skilful and quite professional way of opening doors touched latches delicately, as if they were keys of musical instruments opened every door he touched, as if he were perfectly confident that there was stolen property behind it instantly insinuated himself, to prevent its being shut.
Sharpeye opened several doors of traps that were set for Jack, but Jack did not happen to be in any of them. They were all such miserable places that really, Jack, if I were you, I would give them a wider berth. In every trap, somebody was sitting over a fire, waiting for Jack. Now, it was a crouching old woman, like the picture of the Norwood Gipsy in the old sixpenny dream-books; now, it was a crimp of the male sex, in a checked shirt and without a coat, reading a newspaper; now, it was a man crimp and a woman crimp, who always introduced themselves as united in holy matrimony; now, it was Jack's delight, his (un)lovely Nan; but they were all waiting for Jack, and were all frightfully disappointed to see us.
"Who have you got up-stairs here?" says Sharpeye, generally. (In the Move-on tone.)
"Nobody. surr; sure not a blessed sowl! " (Irish feminine reply.)
