It was six o'clock when he had concluded. By then George had returned;
the three held council in the study. Addressing Mr. Marrapit, Mr.
Brunger tapped his note-book and his little packages. "We shall track
the culprit, never fear, Mr. Marrapit," he said. "My impression is
that this is the work of a gang--a _gang_."
"Precisely my impression," George agreed.
Mr. Brunger took the interruption with the gracious bow of one who
condescends to accept a pat on the back from an inferior. Mr. Marrapit
twisted his fingers in his thin hair; groaned aloud.
"A _gang,_" repeated Mr. Brunger, immensely relishing the word. "We
detectives do not like to speak with certainty until we have clapped
our hands upon our men; we leave that for the amateurs, the bunglers--
the _quacks_ of our profession." The famous confidential inquiry agent
tapped the table with his forefinger and proceeded impressively. "But
I will say this much. Not only a gang, but a desperate gang, a
dangerous, stick-at-nothing gang."
Mr. Marrapit writhed. The detective continued: "What are our grounds
for this belief?" he asked. "What are our _data_?"
He looked at George. George shook his head. Easy enough, and useful,
to acquiesce in the idea of a gang, but uncommonly hard to support the
belief. He shook his head.
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