"— but the whole point of the business," persisted Charters, "is, just how reliable is this man Stone? Who is he? Credentials — I don't doubt it. But, according to Blake here, our young friend Serpos had credentials too, and devilish good ones, as the Reverend Somebody of Something in Somerset. Stone spins this yam about L’ s death. "
H.M. seemed bothered by an invisible fly. "Yarn," he said. "Well, it'll be easy enough to cable Pittsburgh and find out. If he's not connected with the police department, and if L. really didn't die there, then Stone tried a long shot on an awful risky story. But I say, son: why don't you believe Stone's story?"
"I don't know," Charters admitted slowly. "But — damn it all, man! Don't you see for yourself? It's thin. It's pasteboardy. It hasn't got any body. It sounds wrong."
"Uh-huh. But that's because you're romantic, Charters."
"My God," said Charters.
"Yes, but you are, though," said H.M. argumentatively. He got out his black pipe and pointed it. "With all the hard shell you ought to have acquired, that's just what you are. The legend dazzles you. It obscures sense. Now, suppose we'd heard a different story. Suppose L. had been found dyin' in a garret in Vienna, with the windows open on the sunset and the Hapsburg arms in the Cathedral roof — shut up, curse you! I'm tellin' this — you'd be inclined to believe it just because it'd probably be ruddy nonsense. L. was a business man, and a good one. He had to be. But because he was found dyin' in a good substantial no-nonsense city like Pittsburgh or Manchester or Birmingham, if it brings it any closer to you; because he choked off in a good comfortable hotel room, from goin' without his overshoes in spring weather, instead of consumption or a knife-thrust from behind a curtain; because there were no Strauss waltzes or dyin' murmurs in delirium: then it strikes you as all very fishy. Oh, I admit it's disappointin'. I'm disappointed. Stone was disappointed. But that's no reason why we should think it's all a pack of lies."
Charters regarded him coolly.
"Sorry. Very well, then. I'll give you solid reasons. First, if L. doesn't exist, Hogenauer's offer to betray him turns into complete nonsense."
"So," said H.M.
"Next," Charters went on brusquely, after a curious pause while H.M. sucked noisily at his empty pipe, "don't forget Stone's account of the mysterious daughter, L.'s daughter. The lost daughter L. wants to find; and whom Stone does find in the wife of Larry Antrim planted conveniently on our doorstep. Betty Antrim is L.'s daughter! — rot! You've been talking about my melodramatic mind. What about yours? At between my Strauss waltzes and your lost daughters, I'd back a good tune any day in the week…. Who's to know she's L.'s daughter?"