"Well," he said, "what do you think of Flack?"
Rolfe had obtained from the police-constable a straightforward story of
what he had seen, and in this way had picked up some useful information
about the crime which it would have taken a long time to extract from the
inspector, but he was a sufficiently good detective to have learned that
by disparaging the source of your information you add to your own
reputation for acumen in drawing conclusions in regard to it. He nodded
his head in a deprecating way and emitted a slight cough which was meant
to express contempt.
"It looks very much like a case of burglary and murder," he said.
He was anxious to know what theory his superior officer had formed.
"And how do you fit in the letter advising us of the murder?" asked the
inspector.
He produced the letter from his pocket-book and looked at it earnestly.
"There were two of them in it--one a savage ruffian who will stick at
nothing, and the other a chicken-hearted specimen. They often work in
pairs like that."
"So your theory is that one of the two shot him, and the other was so
unnerved that he sent us the letter and put us on the track to save his
own neck?"
"Something like that.
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