“Oh, yes, I remember. But what is it?”
Mr. Mowle produced a pocketbook from the interior of his shiny frock coat, and, taking out a paper, handed it to Bartley Bradstone.
“You can rely upon that information, sir,” he said in his hollow voice.
Bartley Bradstone looked at the paper.
“When did you get this?” he asked in a constrained voice.
“At a quarter past ten this morning. I considered it, and caught the eleven fast train, Mr. Bartley,” he replied, meekly.
“And—and you think it is right?” said Bartley Bradstone in a low voice.
“I’m sure of it, sir,” replied Mowle. “I got it from a source which has never yet sold me. I’d stake my oath upon it, sir.”
Bartley Bradstone went to the window and looked out, probably to hide the light of satisfaction which gleamed in his eyes. Then, after a moment or two, he turned to Mowle again.
“You were quite right to come down with this, Mowle,” he said; “it is too important to be trusted to a wire.”