“That is my prerogative

“That is my prerogative,” protested the detective firmly, but without any display of feeling. “I am the man employed to pick up whatever clews the place may present.”
“Have you picked up all that are to be found in this room?” asked Sweetwater calmly.
Knapp shrugged his shoulders. He was very well satisfied with himself.
“Then give me a chance,” prayed Sweetwater. “Mr. Fenton,” he urged more earnestly, “I am not the fool you take me for. I feel, I know, I have a genius for this kind of thing, and though I am not prepossessing to look at, and though I do play the fiddle, I swear there are depths to this affair which none of you have as yet sounded. Sirs, where are the nine hundred and eighty dollars in bills which go to make up the clean thousand that was taken from the small drawer at the back of Agatha Webb’s cupboard?”
“They are in some secret hiding-place, no doubt, which we will presently come upon as we go through the house,” answered Knapp.
“Umph! Then I advise you to put your hand on them as soon as possible,” retorted Sweetwater. “I will confine myself to going over the ground you have already investigated.” And with a sudden ignoring of the others’ presence, which could only have sprung from an intense egotism or from an overwhelming belief in his own theory, he began an investigation of the room that threw the other’s more commonplace efforts entirely in the shade.
Knapp, with a slight compression of his lips, which was the sole expression of anger he ever allowed himself, took up his hat and made his bow to Mr. Fenton.
“I see,” said he, “that the sympathy of those present is with local talent. Let local talent work, then, sir, and when you feel the need of a man of training and experience, send to the tavern on the docks, where I will be found till I am notified that my services are no longer required.”
“No, no!” protested Mr. Fenton. “This boy’s enthusiasm will soon evaporate. Let him fuss away if he will. His petty business need not interrupt us.”
“But he understands himself,” whispered Knapp. “I should think he had been on our own force for years.”
“All the more reason to see what he’s up to. Wait, if only to satisfy your curiosity. I shan’t let many minutes go by before I pull him up.”
Knapp, who was really of a cold and unimpressionable temperament, refrained from further argument, and confined himself to watching the young man, whose movements seemed to fascinate him.
“Astonishing!” Mr. Fenton heard him mutter to himself. “He’s more like an eel than a man.” And indeed the way Sweetwater wound himself out and in through that room, seeing everything that came under his eye, was a sight well worth any professional’s attention. Pausing before the dead man on the floor, he held the lantern close to the white, worn face. “Ha!” said he, picking something from the long beard, “here’s a crumb of that same bread. Did you see that, Mr. Knapp?”
The question was so sudden and so sharp that the detective came near replying to it; but he bethought himself, and said nothing.
“That settles which of the two gnawed the loaf,” continued Sweetwater.