impossible to lead him astray through his imagination. He hasn’t got any–so
he’s difficult to deceive. He worries things out slowly, and once he’s got hold
of anything he doesn’t let go. The little lady’s quite different. More
intuition and less common sense. They make a pretty pair working together. Pace
and stamina.”
“He seems confident,” mused the Prime Minister.
“Yes, and that’s what gives me hope. He’s the kind of diffident youth who
would have to be VERY sure before he ventured an opinion at all.”
A half smile came to the other’s lips.
“And it is this–boy who will defeat the master criminal of our time?”
“This–boy, as you say! But I sometimes fancy I see a shadow behind.”
“You mean?”
“Peel Edgerton.”
“Peel Edgerton?” said the Prime Minister in astonishment.
“Yes. I see his hand in THIS.” He struck the open letter. “He’s
there–working in the dark, silently, unobtrusively. I’ve always felt that if
anyone was to run Mr. Brown to earth, Peel Edgerton would be the man. I tell
you he’s on the case now, but doesn’t want it known. By the way, I got rather
an odd request from him the other day.”
“Yes?”
“He sent me a cutting from some American paper. It referred to a man’s
body found near the docks in New York about three weeks ago. He asked me to
collect any information on the subject I could.”
“Well?”
Carter shrugged his shoulders.
“I couldn’t get much. Young fellow about thirty-five–poorly dressed–face
very badly disfigured. He was never identified.”
“And you fancy that the two matters are connected in some way?”
“Somehow I do. I may be wrong, of course.”
There was a pause, then Mr. Carter continued:
“I asked him to come round here. Not that we’ll get anything out of him he
doesn’t want to tell. His legal instincts are too strong. But there’s no doubt
he can throw light on one or two obscure points in young Beresford’s letter.
Ah, here he is!”
The two men rose to greet the new-comer. A half whimsical thought flashed
across the Premier’s mind. “My successor, perhaps!”
“We’ve had a letter from young Beresford,” said Mr. Carter, coming to the
point at once. “You’ve seen him, I suppose?”
“You suppose wrong,” said the lawyer.
“Oh!” Mr. Carter was a little nonplussed.
Sir James smiled, and stroked his chin.
“He rang me up,” he volunteered.
“Would you have any objection to telling us exactly what passed between
you?”
“Not at all. He thanked me for a certain letter which I had written to
him–as a matter of fact, I had offered him a job. Then he reminded me of
something I had said to him at Manchester respecting that bogus telegram which
lured Miss Cowley away. I asked him if anything untoward had occurred. He said
it had–that in a drawer in Mr. Hersheimmer’s room he had discovered a
photograph.” The laywer{sic} paused, then continued: “I asked him if the
photograph bore the name and address of a Californian photographer. He replied:
‘You’re on to it, sir. It had.’ Then he went on to tell me something I DIDN’T
know. The original of that photograph was the French girl, Annette, who saved
his life.”
“What?”
“Exactly. I asked the young man with some curiosity what he had done with
the photograph. He replied that he had put it back where he found it.” The
lawyer paused again. “That was good, you know–distinctly good. He can use his
brains, that young fellow. I congratulated him. The discovery was a
providential one. Of course, from the moment that the girl in Manchester was
proved to be a plant everything was altered. Young Beresford saw that for
himself without my having to tell it him. But he felt he couldn’t trust his
judgment on the subject of Miss Cowley. Did I think she was alive? I told him,
duly weighing the evidence, that there was a very decided chance in favour of
it. That brought us back to the telegram.”
“Yes?”
“I advised him to apply to you for a copy of the original wire. It had
occurred to me as probable that, after Miss Cowley flung it on the floor,