"Let's see your wound," commanded Oakes.
O'Brien bared his leg: the injury was now nearly healed; but was still enough to make the man limp. Then, as he bent down to readjust his trousers Oakes, accidentally as it were, brushed against his forehead, throwing back the hair from O'Brien's brow.
We all saw a long, white, glistening scar, now exposed to full view at the line of the heavy hair. The man before us was Larkin the detective.
Oakes with marvelous tranquillity apologized for the "accident," and said: "Why should Maloney have shot you? what is behind it all? Speak."
"I do not know." It was evident to us all that O'Brien was avoiding the issue.
"I see," exclaimed Oakes. "As O'Brien you know nothing; as Mr. Larkin the detective you know more than it suits you to tell."
O'Brien was on his feet in an instant. "Who dares insinuate—who dares say I am a detective, sir?"
"Nonsense! Keep cool. The Chief here has satisfied himself. Tell us—why should Maloney hate you?"
O'Brien glanced around and fixed his gaze on Hallen. "I am Larkin. He hates me because I have been watching him. Maloney is the man responsible for the Mansion mysteries, I think," he said.
"Indeed! What else?" queried Hallen suddenly.