I smiled at the resolute young fellow; there was something decidedly likable in his frank and handsome countenance, and his blunt, intense manner.
"It all depends, Mr. Maillot. You and Mr. Burke are the only ones who can help me to some sort of solution of this crime—if crime it is; I take it for granted that you are willing to do what you can."
He favored me with another stare, then stood thoughtfully pulling at his lips and gazing at the body.
"Poor chap!" he muttered at length, in a hushed voice. "A ghastly way to die; I 'd give a lot to know how it happened." Then he looked brightly at me, and asked with an almost boyish impulsiveness:
"Are you a detective—like Stodger here?"
"I 'm a detective," I told him; "though I don't know how closely I resemble Stodger." A sound came from that worthy that made me think he was strangling. "Swift is my name."
Maillot suddenly thrust out his right hand.
"Glad to know you, Swift," he said heartily. "You look like a sensible chap. I 'm willing to do all I can to help you—of course I am. It won't be much, I 'm afraid. But if any thick-headed cop says I can't do this or can't do that, there 's going to be trouble. They can't bluff me, and I know they have n't any right to dictate what I shall do."
All of which was quite true. Maillot glanced at the body again, and lowered his voice.
"Say," he said, "can't we go to a more appropriate place to talk matters over?"