Strong in that conviction,

I have the honor to be
Your very obedient servant,

Matthew Sharpin.

FROM CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE TO SERGEANT BULMER.

Birmingham, July 9th.

Sergeant Bulmer,

That empty-headed puppy, Mr. Matthew Sharpin, has made a mess of the case at Rutherford Street, exactly as I expected he would.  Business keeps me in this town; so I write to you to set the matter straight.  I enclose, with this, the pages of feeble scribble-scrabble which the creature, Sharpin, calls a report.  Look them over; and when you have made your way through all the gabble, I think you will agree with me that the conceited booby has looked for the thief in every direction but the right one.  The case is perfectly simple, now.  Settle it at once; forward your report to me at this place; and tell Mr. Sharpin that he is suspended till further notice.

Yours,

Francis Theakstone.

FROM SERGEANT BULMER TO CHIEF INSPECTOR THEAKSTONE.

London, July 10th.

Inspector Theakstone,

Your letter and enclosure came safe to hand.  Wise men, they say, may always learn something, even from a fool.  By the time I had got through Sharpin’s maundering report of his own folly, I saw my way clear enough to the end of the Rutherford-Street case, just as you thought I should.  In half an hour’s time I was at the house.  The first person I saw there was Mr. Sharpin himself.

“Have you come to help me?” says he.

“Not exactly,” says I.  “I’ve come to tell you that you are suspended till further notice.”

“Very good,” says he, not taken down, by so much as a single peg, in his own estimation.  “I thought you would be jealous of me.  It’s very natural; and I don’t blame you.  Walk in, pray, and make yourself at home.  I’m off to do a little detective business on my own account, in the neighborhood of the Regent’s Park.  Ta-ta, Sergeant, ta-ta!”

With those words he took himself out of my way,—­which was exactly what I wanted him to do.  As soon as the maid-servant had shut the door, I told her to inform her master that I wanted to say a word to him in private.  She showed me into the parlor behind the shop; and there was Mr. Yatman, all alone, reading the newspaper.

“About this matter of the robbery, Sir,” says I.

He cut me short, peevishly enough,—­being naturally a poor, weak, womanish sort of man.  “Yes, yes, I know,” says he.  “You have come to tell me that your wonderfully clever man, who has bored holes in my second-floor partition, has made a mistake, and is off the scent of the scoundrel who has stolen my money.”

“Yes, Sir,” says I.  “That is one of the things I came to tell you.  But I have got something else to say, besides that.”

“Can you tell me who the thief is?” says he, more pettish than ever.