“And the character of the Agency I represent?”
“That, sir, is also not of the unlikeliest.”
“I am interested in the case of the young man, Charles Baxter, Mr Hamlin.”
“Indeed, Mr Balm?”
“In your opinion has this advertisement, which appeared recently in the columns of the Daily Post, any connection with, or bearing upon, the issues of that trial?”
He produced and handed over the extract given him by Mrs Baxter. The dealer accepted it courteously.
“Miss Barnes,” he said, after a glance at the paper; “you can go to your dinner if you will be so good.”
He turned away, shifting some letters on his desk, during the few moments occupied by the girl in putting on her hat and jacket. She passed Gilead with a stare of curiosity and a little pert jerk of her chin. As the sound of her footsteps receded, Mr Hamlin came about again, an engaging smile on his lips. He was a handsome, rather swarthy young fellow, and his teeth looked glaringly white.
“I am quite at a loss for your meaning, sir,” he said. “For me I can see no connection, not in the least.”
“You will recall,” said Gilead, “that Mr Valkenburg’s servant gave evidence at the trial—evidence damning to the prisoner. Her name was Jennett, and spelt in this peculiar way.”