The chill of the evening crept into the house in cold breaths,
turning the gloomy hall into a good representation of a family vault.
"All I can say," said Cleek, chewing a cigar, his hands in his trousers'
pockets, and his feet rocking from toe to heel, "is--get out of it,
Borkins, as soon as you can. I don't mind tellin' you, I'm jolly glad to
be clearin' out myself. It's been a devilish uncanny business from first
to last, and not much to my taste. Now, _I_ like a decent robbery or a
nice, quick-fingered forger that wants a bit of huntin' up. You know,
even detectives have their particular favourites in the matter of crime,
Borkins, and a beastly murder isn't exactly in _my_ line."
Borkins laughed respectfully, rubbing his hands together.
"Nor mine, sir," he made answer. "Though I must say you gentlemen 'aven't
been a bit what I imagined detectives to be. When you first come down,
you know, I spotted something different about you, and--"
"Ought to be on the Force yourself!" supplemented Cleek.
"And not such a bad callin' neither!" returned Borkins with a grin.
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