CHAPTER LII.
THE VERDICT OF AN EXPERT.
Late in the afternoon of the day following that on which Carnegie the Expert had received his commission from the Chief of the detectives, he appeared again in the presence of that personage.
He carried his “documents” in a small packet, which he laid upon the desk, and he turned upon the Chief a face as cheerful and as full of suppressed activity as usual.
“Well?” queried the Chief, glancing down at the packet, “have you done?”
“Yes;” beginning to open the packet with quick, nervous fingers.
“And you found—” He paused and looked up at the Expert.
Carnegie took from the packet the letter addressed to Alan Warburton, and written in the scrawling, unreadable hand. This he spread open upon the desk. Then he took another letter, written in an elegant hand, and with various vigorous ornamental flourishes. This he laid beside the first, pushing the remaining letters carelessly aside as if they were of no importance.
“I find—” he said, looking hard at the Chief, and putting one forefinger upon the elegant bit of penmanship, the other upon the unreadable scrawl;—“I find that these two were written by the same hand.”
The Chief leaned forward; he had not been able to see the writing from the place in which he sat. He leaned closer and fixed his eyes upon the two signatures. The one he had seen before; the other was signed—Vernet.
Slowly he withdrew his eyes from the signature, and turned them upon the face of the Expert.
“Carnegie,” he asked, “do you ever make a mistake?”
“I?” Carnegie’s look said the rest.
“Because,” went on the Chief, scarcely noticing Carnegie’s indignant exclamation, “if you ever made a mistake, I should say, I should wish to believe, that this was one.”
“It’s no mistake,” replied the Expert grimly. “I never saw a clearer case.”
“Carnegie, do you ever make a mistake?”—[page 376].
The Chief passed his hand across his brow, and seemed to meditate, while the Expert gathered up the heap of letters and arranged them once more into a neat packet.
“If you are still in doubt,” he said tartly, “you might try—somebody else.”
“No, no, Carnegie,” replied the Chief, rousing himself, “you are right, no doubt. You must be right.”
Carnegie snapped a rubber band about the newly-arranged packet, and tossed it down beside the two letters.
“Then,” he said, taking up his hat, “I suppose you have no further use for me?”
“Not at present, Carnegie.”
The Expert turned sharply, and without further ceremony whisked out of the room.
For some moments the Chief sat wrinkling his brow and gazing upon the two letters outspread before him.
Then he took up the elegantly-written epistle, folded it carefully, and thrust it in among those in the rubber-bound packet. This done he rang his bell, and called for Sanford.
The latter came promptly, and stood mutely before his Chief.
“Sanford,” said that gentleman, pointing to the packet upon the table, “you may try your hand as an Expert.”
“How, sir?”
“Take those letters, and this,” pushing forward the outspread scrawl, “and see if you can figure out who wrote it.”
Sanford took up the packet, looked earnestly at his superior, and hesitated.
“Carnegie has given his opinion,” said the Chief, in answer to this look. “I want to see how you agree.”
Sanford took up the scrawl, scanned it slowly, folded it and slipped it underneath the rubber of the packet.
“Is that all, sir?” he asked quietly.
“That is all. Take your time, Sanford; take your time.”
Sanford bowed and went slowly from the room.
A few moments longer the Chief sat thinking, a look of annoyance upon his face. Then he slowly arose, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a small, thick diary, reseated himself.
“I must review this business,” he muttered. “There’s something about it that I don’t—quite—understand.”
He turned the leaves of the diary quickly, running the pages backward, until he reached those containing an account of the events of one or two days five weeks old upon the calendar. Here he singled out the notes concerning the Raid and its results, following which were the outlines of the accounts of that night as given him by Vernet and Stanhope.
Now, in giving his account of that night, Van Vernet had said little of his experience with Alan Warburton, and at the masquerade. And in giving his account of the Raid and its failure, he had omitted the fact that he had accepted and used “Silly Charlie” as a guide, speaking of him only as a spy and rescuer. Hence the Chief had gained anything but a correct idea of the part actually played by this bogus idiot.
On the other hand, Stanhope had described at length the events of the masquerade, as they related to himself, but had said little concerning Leslie and the nature of the service she required of him, referring to her only as Mr. Follingsbee’s client. He had related his misadventures with the Troubadour and the Chinaman, leaving upon their shoulders the entire blame of his failure and non-appearance at the Raid. And he had never once mentioned Vernet’s presence, nor the part the latter had played to gain the precedence with his Chief.
In thus omitting important facts, each had his motive; and the omissions had not, at the time, been noted by the Chief. Now, however, as he read and re-read his memoranda—recalling to mind how he had shared with Vernet his chagrin at the failure of the Raid, and laughed with Stanhope over his comical mishaps—he seemed to read something between the lines, and his face grew more and more perplexed as he closed the diary, and sat intently thinking.
“There’s a mystery here that courts investigation,” he muttered, as he arose at last and put away the diary. “I’d give something, now, for twenty minutes’ talk with Dick Stanhope.”
Early on the following morning, Sanford presented himself before his Chief, the bundle of letters in his hand, and a troubled look upon his face.
“Well, Sanford, is it done?”
“I wish,” said Sanford, as he placed the packet upon the table, “I wish it had never been begun—at least by me.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to believe the evidence of my senses.”
“There’s a sentiment for a detective! Out with it man; what have you found?”
Sanford took two papers from his pocket and held them in his hand irresolutely.
“I hope I am wrong,” he said; “if I am—”
“If you are, it will rest between us two. Out with it, now.”
“There’s only one man among us that I can trace this letter to,” beginning to unfold the troublesome scrawl, “and he—” He opened the second paper and laid it before his Chief.
The latter dropped his eyes to the vexatious paper and said, mechanically: “Vernet!”
“I’m sorry,” began Sanford, regretfully. “I tried—”
“You need not be,” interrupted the Chief. “It’s Carnegie’s verdict too.”
Sanford sat down in the nearest seat, and looked earnestly at his Chief, saying nothing.
After a moment of silence, the latter said:
“Sanford, I want Vernet shadowed.”
Sanford started and looked as if he doubted his own ears.
“I don’t want him interfered with,” went on the Chief slowly, “and watching him will be a delicate job; but I wish it done. I want to be informed of every move he makes. You must manage this business. I shall depend upon you.”