“And you are in charge of the Bechcombe case?”
“Well, I may say I am,” the inspector agreed. “And I think you are Mr. Cyril B. Carnthwacke.”
“Sure thing! And no reason to be ashamed of my name either,” the other said truculently, rather as if he expected the inspector to challenge his statement.
The inspector, however, was looking his blandest.
“The name of Cyril B. Carnthwacke is one to conjure with not only in your own country but in ours,” he said politely. “Did you wish to speak to me, sir?”
“I did, very particularly,” responded Mr. Carnthwacke. “But”—with a glance at Mr. Steadman—“this gentleman——?”
“Mr. Steadman, sir, the late Mr. Bechcombe's cousin, and at one time one of the best-known criminal lawyers practising at the bar. He has been kind enough to place his experience at our disposal in this most perplexing case. Will you come into my office, Mr. Carnthwacke?”
“Of course, we can't stand out in the street,” responded the millionaire.
The inspector led the way to his private room and then clearing a lot of papers from the nearest chair set it forward.
Mr. Carnthwacke sat down with a word of thanks. John Steadman took up his position with his back to the fireplace, the inspector dropped into his revolving chair and looked at his visitor.