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Stafford found his grey-haired chief, arrayed in a flowered silk dressing-gown, balancing bread on an electric toaster. "Bad news, eh, Stafford?" he said. "Sit down and have some coffee. The girl is gone?" Stafford nodded. "And our unfortunate detective-constable, who was sent to watch, is half-way to the mortuary, I presume?"
That plumber happens to be no fool a bit smarter than the detective-constable, it seems to me, in fact. Anyhow, he seems to have got more out of my man than my man got out of him; and soon after I reached the Yard he turned up, asking to see me.
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