VII
THE CROOK DETECTIVE
We were interrupted by the arrival of Doyle at the door. With him was a stranger whom he seemed to be virtually forcing along ahead of him.
As they entered, I regarded the man carefully. He seemed to have a sort of hangdog look.
Doyle led him over beside the laboratory table, near which Kennedy was standing, and Kennedy glanced at Doyle questioningly.
"This is Mr. Rascon, a private detective," growled Doyle, stressing the Mister insultingly, and continuing to push the man forward. "Meet Mr. Kennedy, Rascon."
Doyle had evidently the official contempt for the very breed of private detectives. The man bowed stiffly and nervously to Craig, who extended his hand, which the man took rather spiritlessly. Altogether I thought it a very peculiar circumstance.
"Meet Mr. Jameson, of The Star," added Doyle. "It might be well for you to have a few newspaper friends. They might come in handy some day. They tell me a press agent's job is to keep things out of the papers as well as to get them in."
Rascon smiled weakly as he shook my hand, and by the clammy touch of his hand I knew that he was either very nervous or very ill—perhaps both.
"Tell Mr. Kennedy what you've been doing, Rascon," commanded Doyle in his best gruff manner.
Rascon hesitated, but Doyle repeated his command, and in the repetition there was a thinly veiled threat that at once aroused the interest of both of us. What could be the purpose of bringing the stranger to us now?