Rascon cleared his throat.
"I've been employed by Mr. Wilford," he remarked a bit huskily, "to watch Mrs. Wilford."
"What—to trail her?" asked Kennedy with increased interest.
"Yes," admitted the man, reluctantly.
As I watched him I could see that he was of the type that is all too common. His shifty eye, never meeting yours for any considerable length of time, made a very unfavorable impression on me. It is not that all private detectives, or perhaps even a considerable number, in view of the many in the profession, are of this class. But there are altogether too many of his type and they are a decided menace to their branch of the profession and to society in general. I refer to the type that euphoniously "furnishes" evidence—but unscrupulously goes to the length, if necessary, of actually manufacturing it. They are to their profession what the yellow journalist is to mine, the quack doctor to the medical profession—pariahs.
"Well," prodded Doyle, "tell us what you found."
Again there was no answer.
"Come—speak up. Tell us. You might as well tell now as to do it later."
Still he said nothing. Slowly Rascon drew from his breast pocket a tissue-paper flimsy sheet, a carbon copy of some typewriting, such as some agencies frequently use on which to make their reports to their clients.
"Read it!" demanded Doyle.