"I am afraid of your criticisms," laughed the rough detective. "Fifthly is the result of my poking about among Mr. Mansell's traps."
"Ah!" frowned the other, with a vivid remembrance of that picture of Miss Dare, with its beauty blotted out by the ominous black lines.
"You are too squeamish for a detective," the other declared. "Guess you're kept for the fancy business, eh?"
The look Mr. Byrd gave him was eloquent. "Go on," said he; "let us hear what lies behind your fifthly."
"Love," returned the man. "Locked in the drawer of this young gentleman's table, I found some half-dozen letters tied with a black ribbon. I knew they were written by a lady, but squeamishness is not a fault of mine, and so I just allowed myself to glance over them. They were from Miss Dare, of course, and they revealed the fact that love, as well as ambition, had been a motive power in determining this Mansell to make a success out of his invention."
Leaning back, the now self-satisfied detective looked at Mr. Byrd.
"The name of Miss Dare," he went on, "brings me to the point from which we started. I haven't yet told you what old Sally Perkins had to say to me."
"No," rejoined Mr. Byrd.
"Well," continued the other, poking with his foot the dying embers of the fire, till it started up into a fresh blaze, "the case against this young fellow wouldn't be worth very much without that old crone's testimony, I reckon; but with it I guess we can get along."
"Let us hear," said Mr. Byrd.