"Meaning you and Captain Winston. The news will interest you both. It is about two dear friends of yours, Marcel Moncourt and—his son."
"We've never had the pleasure of meeting Marcel Moncourt Junior," said Jack.
"Oh, yes, you have, begging your pardon," said Ed. "Only you know him by another name. By the way, may I ask, before I go further, where is Patricia?"
"Pat's in my boudoir," I informed him airily. "She's engaged just now, talking to Mr. Storm. He——"
"Is the person I referred to a moment ago," Caspian sliced my sentence in two. "Marcel Moncourt Junior has good reason for taking an alias. It was known to everybody who knew him and his father that he was a wastrel, if not worse. Marcel Senior was a fool about him—brought him up like a prince, and suffered the consequences. The boy spent money like water, and was hauled out of one scrape only to fall into another. Then came the time of my cousin old Justin Stanislaws' death. It happened under strange circumstances; there was suggestion of foul play. Young Marcel was in the house at the time—had arrived secretly. I know that certain jewels disappeared mysteriously—couldn't be found afterward—jewels that Stanislaws always kept near him because of certain associations. Not only did they disappear, but young Marcel disappeared, too—whether with or without them was never proved. Stanislaws' son was alive then and protected the fellow: they'd been friends as boys. No inquiry was made till I became the heir. Then it was too late. Marcel Junior had gone abroad and couldn't be located. It was then it came to my knowledge that suspicion pointed to young Marcel not only as a thief but as a murderer——"
"Oh, come, sir, that's going a bit too far!" ventured the mean-looking little man who had come in with Caspian, and who had been growing more and more restless as Ed piled up his accusations.
"Why, too far, when you told me yourself that one of his handkerchiefs was found in my cousin's room the morning after the murder?"
"Well, you see, sir, there was never anything more than gossip to say it was a murder," persisted the little man. Turning anxiously to Jack, he hurried to explain himself. "I was valet to the old gentleman at the time of his death," he announced. "I'm an Englishman, as I think you are, sir. My name's Thomas Dawson. I've been living in Chicago and other cities of the Middle West since young Mr. Stanislaws (who was drowned later) paid me off and let me go. This gentleman, the heir to the estates, has had me looked up by a detective agency. I came to New York willing enough; but I didn't come to accuse no one of murder, whether I have any cause to remember them kindly or not!"
"You're not asked to accuse any one, you're asked to identify a man you know," snapped Caspian. He, too, turned to Jack. "It's very annoying as things have turned out, that Moncourt Senior didn't stop on at Kidd's Pines after the fire instead of going to New York. He ought to be here now, so we could confront him with——"
"Really, Caspian, I think 'confront' isn't the word to use in such a tone and in connection with our Marcel," Jack admonished him.