“I think you might go,” replied Linnell. “It should be more in your line than mine—you’re younger to begin with. Can’t you do a bit of ‘sleuthing’ on your own account? Sherlock Holmes has had many imitators!”
“I might. It will make quite an interesting and ‘piquant’ situation—a ‘suspect’ one moment—a ‘sleuth’ the next. I remember my brother Gerald—by Jove, Linnell, I’ve got it—Anthony Bathurst! Why on earth didn’t I think of him before?”
“Who’s that? What do you mean?”
“Why, if you want a man to act for young Stewart, you couldn’t possibly find a better!”
“What is he—a private inquiry agent?”
“Not on your life—he’s a sort of free lance—tinkers about at a good many things. He was up at Oxford about the same time as Gerald. That is to say, about three years after me. Can you remember the Considine Manor affair?”
“Considine Manor? Wasn’t it a murder down in Sussex somewhere?”
“You’ve got it. Well, old Gerald was actually stopping in the house at the time. He always regards Bathurst as an absolute marvel. Cleared up the case when it had got the Police absolutely ‘stone cold.’ He never tires of singing Bathurst’s praises!”
“Where is he now? Do you know?”
Peter stroked his chin. Hadn’t Gerald told him Bathurst was living in London somewhere?