“You haven’t told me yet,” I urged, “of those three definite clues you picked up right at the outset. Still liking the look of them? I’m curious!”
“One of ’em has been dragged to light, Bill, and I’m very satisfied with its results—the other two I’m still keeping—for the time being at all events.”
I felt annoyed. All faithful Watsons were not treated in this cavalier manner. They were always admitted willingly and readily into the confidential intimacies. I voiced a complaint. I thought a semi-humorous strain might become the matter best.
“How, my dear Anthony,” I began, “can you reasonably expect to be guided by the best gleams of my superlative intelligence and highly-powered imagination, if you persist in withholding important information from me?” He flashed a smile at me. Then his face took on a more serious aspect.
“Pardon me, Bill—not exactly information. You have seen the same things as I have seen—I’m keeping nothing from you—the difference is that a certain two points made a vivid impression on me—and they didn’t on you.”
“All right, then,” I returned, “I plead guilty. What were they?”
“If I tell you, Bill, and eventually we find that their significance was much less than I imagine, you’ll never believe in me again—and I can’t possibly run the risk of that.”
I could see that nothing I could do would shake his determination. So I turned the subject.
“Are you in a hurry to look over Prescott’s bedroom again?”
“It depends on what you mean by a ‘hurry.’”