“True enough. But it is possible, and, in my opinion, that is the only direction to look.”
“But what direction? How can you find out who blew that bugle?”
“I don’t know yet, but I shall try to find out. As a matter of fact very little inquiry has been made. Those two detectives, while intelligent enough, don’t have a very wide horizon. They’ve concluded that the assassin was—well, was named Wheeler—and they’re only concerned to discover the first name. Forgive my plain speaking, but to save yourself and the other two, we must be outspoken.”
“Yes, yes—pray don’t hesitate to say anything you think. I am in a terrible position, Mr. Keefe—more terrible than you can know, and while I am willing to make any sacrifice for my dear ones—it may be in vain——”
The two men had been alone in the den, but now were joined by Burdon and young Allen.
“Glad to see you back, Mr. Keefe,” Burdon said; “usually we detectives don’t hanker after outside help, but you’ve a good, keen mind, and I notice you generally put your finger on the right spot.”
“All right, Burdon, we’ll work together. Now, Mr. Wheeler, I’m going to ask you to leave us—for there are some details to discuss——”
Dan Wheeler was only too glad to be excused, and with a sigh of relief he went away to his upstairs quarters.
“Now, it’s this way,” Keefe began; “I’ve been sounding Mr. Wheeler, but I didn’t get any real satisfaction. But here’s a point. Either he did or didn’t kill Mr. Appleby, but in either case, he’s in bad.”
“What do you mean?” asked Allen.