‘You are Nolan?’
‘I have the honour—or the dishonour.’
‘I am glad to meet you,’ said Richard. ‘Of course, I know you well by reputation. How thoroughly you go into an affair! Fancy you acting as odd man here for weeks! I tell you you have completely imposed on them.’
‘Have I?’ exclaimed Micky—or Nolan, as he must now be called. ‘I should be glad to be assured of that. Twice to-day I have feared that Raphael Craig had his doubts of me.’
‘I don’t think so for a moment,’ said Richard positively. ‘But what is your object—what is Scotland Yard after? Personally, I came here without any theories, on the chance of something turning up.’
‘Scotland Yard is merely curious about the suicide—if it was a suicide—of a man named Featherstone, and about the plague of silver which has visited this district during the last year or two.’
‘You say “if it was a suicide.” Do you suspect that Featherstone’s death was due to anything else?’
‘I never suspect until I know, Mr. Redgrave. I am here with an open mind.’
‘And what have you discovered so far?’ asked Richard.
‘My very dear sir,’ Nolan expostulated, ‘what do you take me for? I am sure that you are a man of unimpeachable honour—all private agents are—but, nevertheless, I cannot proclaim my discoveries to a stranger. It would be a breach of etiquette to do so, even if such a course were not indiscreet.’