I always employ the same cabman—you remember Peter Lyverson, of course? Well, he had been waiting for us five hours in one of the small streets in the East end, and was just as disappointed at the lack of success and as wet as I was, so I thought it only right to ask him inside and give him a stiff glass of brandy.
Lyverson had just finished his glass, and with a profusion of thanks was lighting a cigar and bowing himself out, when we heard a ring at the telephone.
"Wait a moment," I cried to him, and rushed to the apparatus.
"Hello! are you Monk, the police detective?"
"Yes; who is it?"
"Bartholomew Frick of Drammen Road. Can you come out here at once? My house has been broken into. I thought that a man like you would prefer to be the first on the spot, and as quickly as possible!"
"All right, I will come."
It was not pleasant, for I was wet and tired; but business is business, and Bartholomew Frick was right in saying that I liked to be the first on the spot. Some minutes later the carriage was rolling along the deserted streets in the pouring rain toward Drammen Road.
I used the time, while we were on our way, to recall what I knew about "Old Frick."
Bartholomew or "Captain" Frick, as he was also called, had left Norway when quite a young man—somewhere between twenty and thirty years of age. For a generation or so no one heard anything of him, until suddenly he returned to his native country, an old man. This was some years before my story begins.