‘Do ye mean that ye’re an English detective?’
‘No, merely a friend of Mr. Logan’s who left Kirkburn this evening. I have business to do for him in London in connection with the case—business that nobody can do but myself—and the house was watched. I escaped in the disguise which you see me wearing, and had to throw off a gang of ruffians that accompanied me in the train by pretending to be drunk. I could only shake them off and destroy the suspicions which they expressed by getting arrested.’
‘It’s a queer story,’ said the policeman.
‘It is a queer story, but, speaking without knowledge, I think your best plan is to summon the chief of your detective department, I need his assistance. And I can prove my identity to him—to you, if you like, but you know best what is official etiquette.’
‘I’ll telephone for him, sir.’
‘You are very obliging. All this is confidential, you know. Expense is no object to Mr. Logan, and he will not be ungrateful if strict secrecy is preserved. But, of all things, I want a wash.’
‘All right, sir,’ said the policeman, and in a few minutes Merton’s head, hands, and neck, were restored to their pristine propriety.
‘No more kailyard talk for me,’ he thought, with satisfaction.
The head of the detective department arrived in no long time. He was in evening dress. Merton rose and bowed.
‘What’s your story, sir?’ the chief asked; ‘it has brought me from a dinner party at my own house.’