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Lester, "I heard no more or anything until I read of this Scarnham affair in the newspapers." "And now that you have read it, ma'am, and have heard what I have to tell," said Starmidge, "do you connect it in any way with Mr. Guy Lester's affair?" Mrs. Lester looked puzzled. She considered the detective's proposition in silence for a time. "No!" she answered at last. "Really, I don't!"
I did feel, however, the hand which was laid strongly and with authority upon my shoulder; and, tearing my eyes from her face only long enough to perceive that it was Sweetwater who had thus arrested me, I looked back at her, in time to see the questions leap from her lips to Arthur, whose answers I could well understand from the pitying movement in the crowd and the low hum of restrained voices which ran between her sinking figure and the spot where I stood apart, with the detective's hand on my shoulder.
Blake, imagine yourself in a detective's office. A woman comes in, the housekeeper of a respected citizen, and informs us that a girl employed by her as seamstress has disappeared in a very unaccountable way from her master's house the night before; in fact been abducted as she thinks from certain evidences, through the window.
The situation demanded a bludgeon. He began the attack at once. "Why didn't you ring up Mulberry Street last night, Senator?" he said. "I was too upset. My nerves were all in." "You told the patrolman at Eighty-sixth Street that you were hurrying away to break the news to Mrs. Tower, yet you did not go near her?" Meiklejohn affected to consult Clancy's card to ascertain the detective's name.
"Crocker might have known it," said he, melting. "He's so cursed smart!" "And think," Miss Thorn continued, quick to follow up an advantage, "think what would have happened if they hadn't denied you. This horrid man would have gone off with you to Asquith or somewhere else, with handcuffs on your wrists; for it isn't a detective's place to take evidence, Mr. Crocker says.
"I don't take much of that stuff," she said, seeing the detective's eyes fixed curiously on her, "but you 'ave given me such a turn that I must take something to steady my nerves; what do you want me to do?" "Tell me all you know," said Mr. Gorby, keeping his eyes fixed on her face. "Where was Mr. Whyte killed?" she asked. "He was murdered in a hansom cab on the St. Kilda Road."
But there was a rumour also, though not corroborated during his last visit to Liverpool, that she had shot a gentleman in Oregon. Could he get at the truth of that story? If they were all true, surely he could justify himself to himself. But this detective's work was very distasteful to him. After having had the woman in his arms how could he undertake such inquiries as these?
'Tis said that four men were engaged in the foul work, and that they belong to a league of desperate ruffians, as hard to deal with as ever the James and Younger brothers. Better leave it to the Chicago and St. Louis force, Dyke. I should hate to see you made the victim of these scoundrels." Mr. Elliston laid his hand on the detective's arm in a friendly way, and seemed deeply anxious.
Something in his grey eyes and in the quiet determination of his manner made them realise that he had won his fame honestly. With the enthusiasm of his race the Hungarian Count pressed the detective's hand in a warm grasp as he said: "I know that we can trust in you. You will avenge the death of my old friend and of those others who were killed here.
Morley looked at him and felt that the detective's eyes bored into him. "What about make-up?" "I had the idea perhaps I got it from George Withers that you used to be interested in a matter of theatricals." Morley coloured. "Yes. That is," he qualified, "I was a member of the dramatic club when I was in college, University of Pennsylvania. But I didn't know Withers knew anything about it."
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