"Hur! If un's the best Scotland Yard could let out to ye, sir--a half-baked old softy like that!--the rest of 'em must be a blessed poor lot, Ah'm thinkin'.

What's un doin' now, the noodle ?--snuffin' the air like he did not understand the smell of it! He'd not be expectin' a stable to be scented with eau de cologne, would he?
What's un name, sir ?" "Cleek." "Hur! Sounds like a golf-stick--an' Ah've no doubt he's got a head like one: main thick and with a twist in un.

I dunna like 'tecs, Sir Henry, and I dunna like this one especial.

Who's to tell as he aren't in with they devils as is after Black Riot?
Naw! I dunna like him at all." Meantime, serenely unconscious of the displeasure he had excited in Logan's breast, Cleek went on sniffing the air and "poking about," as he phrased it, in all corners of the stable; and when, a moment later, Sir Henry went in and joined him, he was standing before the door of the steel room examining the curving scratch of which the baronet had spoken.
"What do you make of it, Mr.Cleek ?" "Not much in the way of a clue, Sir Henry--a clue to any possible intruder, I mean.

If your artistic soul hadn't rebelled against bare steel--which would, of course, have soon rusted in this ammonia-impregnated atmosphere--and led you to put a coat of paint over the metal, there would have been no mark at all, the thing is so slight.
I am of the opinion that Tolliver himself caused it.