Noth'
t'do with their time 'cept get 'nto trouble."
She frowned disapprovingly at a Canaletto.
"You--ah--appear to dislike the rich," said Mrs. Pett, as nearly
in her grand manner as she could contrive.
Miss Trimble bowled over the grand manner as if it had been a
small fowl and she an automobile. She rolled over it and squashed
it flat.
"Hate 'em! Sogelist!"
"I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Pett humbly. This woman was
beginning to oppress her to an almost unbelievable extent.
"Sogelist! No use f'r idle rich. Ev' read B'nard Shaw? Huh? Or
Upton Sinclair? Uh? Read'm. Make y'think a bit. Well, y'haven't
told me whasser trouble."
Mrs. Pett was by this time heartily regretting the impulse which
had caused her to telephone to Mr. Sturgis. In a career which had
had more than its share of detectives, both real and fictitious,
she had never been confronted with a detective like this. The
galling thing was that she was helpless. After all, one engaged a
detective for his or her shrewdness and efficiency, not for
suavity and polish. A detective who hurls speech at you through
clenched teeth and yet detects is better value for the money than
one who, though an ideal companion for the drawing-room, is
incompetent: and Mrs. Pett, like most other people,
subconsciously held the view that the ruder a person is the more
efficient he must be. It is but rarely that any one is found who
is not dazzled by the glamour of incivility.
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