Barnes wondered whether there was any connection between this man's giving up his position, and the account of the discoveries in regard to Mr. Quadrant's body which the morning papers had published.
"Mr. Berial," said Mr. Barnes after a few moments' thought, "I wish you would let me have a little talk with your man – Jack, I think you called him. And I would like to speak to him alone if you don't mind. I feel that I must find this other fellow, Jerry, and perhaps Jack may be able to give me some information as to his home, unless you can yourself tell me where he lives."
"No; I know nothing about him," said Mr. Berial. "Of course you can speak to Jack. I'll call him in here and I'll be off to attend to some business. That will leave you alone with him."
Jack, when he came in, proved to be a character. Mr. Barnes soon discovered that he had little faith in the good intentions of any one in the world except himself. He evidently was one of those men who go through life with a grievance, feeling that all people have in some way contributed to their misfortune.
"Your name is Jack," said Mr. Barnes; "Jack what?"
"Jackass, you might say," answered the fellow, with a coarse attempt at wit.
"And why, pray?"
"Well, a jackass works like a slave, don't he? And what does he get out of it? Lots of blows, plenty of cuss words, and a little fodder. It's the same with yours truly."
"Very well, my man, have your joke. But now tell me your name. I am a detective."
"The devil a much I care for that. I ain't got nothin' to hide. My name's Randal, if you must have it. Jack Randal."
"Very good. Now I want to ask you a few questions about the funeral of Mr. Quadrant."
"Ask away. Nobody's stoppin' you."
"You assisted in preparing the body for the coffin, I think?"
"Yes, and helped to put him in it."
"Have you any idea how he got out of it again?" asked Mr. Barnes suddenly.
"Nit. Leastways, not any worth mentionin', since I can't prove what I might think."
"But I should like to know what you think, anyway," persisted the detective.
"Well, I think he was took out," said Randal with a hoarse laugh.
"Then you do not believe that he was cremated?"
"Cremated? Not on your life. If he was made into ashes, would he turn up again a floater and drift onto the marble at the Morgue? I don't think."
"But how could the body have gotten out of the coffin?"
"He couldn't. I never saw a stiff do that, except once, at an Irish wake, and that fellow wasn't dead. No, the dead don't walk. Not these days. I tell you, he was took out of the box. That's as plain as your nose, not meanin' to be personal."
"Come, come, you have said all that before. What I want to know is, how you think he could have been taken out of the coffin."
"Lifted out, I reckon."
Mr. Barnes saw that nothing would be gained by getting angry, though the fellow's persistent flippancy annoyed him extremely. He thought best to appear satisfied with his answers, and to endeavor to get his information by slow degrees, since he could not get it more directly.
"Were you present when the coffin lid was fastened?"
"Yes; the boss did that."
"How was it fastened? With the usual style of screws?"
"Oh, no! We used the boss's patent screw, warranted to keep the corpse securely in his grave. Once stowed away in the boss's patent screw-top casket, no ghost gets back to trouble the long-suffering family."
"You know all about these patent coffin-screws?"
"Why, sure. Ain't I been working with old Berial these three years?"
"Does Mr. Berial always screw on the coffin lids himself?"
"Yes; he's stuck on it."
"He keeps the screw-driver in his own possession?"
"So he thinks."
"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Barnes, immediately attentive.
"Just what I say. Old Berial thinks he's got the only screw-driver."
"But you know that there is another?"
"Who says so? I don't know anything of the sort."
"Why, then, do you cast a doubt upon the matter by saying that Mr. Berial thinks he has the only one?"
"Because I do doubt it, that's all."
"Why do you doubt it?"
"Oh, I don't know. A fellow can't always account for what he thinks, can he?"
"You must have some reason for thinking there may be a duplicate of that screw-driver."
"Well, what if I have?"
"I would like to know it."
"No doubt! But it ain't right to cast suspicions when you can't prove a thing, is it?"
"Perhaps others may find the proof."
"Just so. People in your trade are pretty good at that, I reckon."
"Good at what?"
"Proving things that don't exist."
"But if your suspicion is groundless, there can be no harm in telling it to me."
"Oh, there's grounds enough for what I think. Look here, suppose a case. Suppose a party, a young female party, dies. Suppose her folks think they'd like to have her hands crossed on her breast. Suppose a man, me, for instance, helps the boss fix up that young party with her hands crossed, and suppose there's a handsome shiner, a fust-water diamond, on one finger. Suppose we screw down that coffin lid tight at night, and the boss carts off his pet screw-driver. Then suppose next day, when he opens that coffin for the visitors to have a last look at the young person, that the other man, meanin' me, happens to notice that the shiner is missin'. If no other person notices it, that's because they're too busy grievin'. But that's the boss's luck, I say. The diamond's gone, just the same, ain't it? Now, you wouldn't want to claim that the young person come out of that patent box and give that diamond away in the night, would you? If she come out at all, I should say it was in the form of a ghost, and I never heard of ghosts wearin' diamonds, or givin' away finger rings. Did you?"
"Do you mean to say that such a thing as this has occurred?"
"Oh, I ain't sayin' a word. I don't make no accusations. You can draw your own conclusions. But in a case like that you would think there was more than one of them screw-drivers, now, wouldn't you?"
"I certainly should, unless we imagined that Mr. Berial himself returned to the house and stole the ring. But that, of course, is impossible."
"Is it?"
"Why, would you think that Mr. Berial would steal?"
"Who
