The attempt was therefore ascribed simply to a desire for plunder; that it might have political significance was not even publicly suggested. So far as Rutile knew, Risdon was the only one to smell even the smallest rat; and Risdon, having absolutely no information concerning the letter Topham had brought, knew nothing that connected Ouro Preto with the incident. He therefore found so little on which to base a story, that he cabled only a vague surmise that nobody paid any attention to.
But despite the fact that few people suspected any particular mystery in the motive, everybody took a very great interest in the crime. The dead man was plainly not a common thief. His clothing was good and his person showed evidences of refinement. He was unknown to the police, and was therefore presumably not a member of the ordinary criminal classes. Very obviously, too, he had been murdered by his companion to do away with any chance that he might betray that companion’s identity.
Few criminals go so far as to murder a “pal” under such circumstances, and from this it was argued that the accomplice must be a man who had much more than the ordinary at stake. In other words, it seemed very probable that he was a Raffles in real life. Naturally, such a suggestion was nuts to the newspaper men and they used it to the full.
Topham and Rutile shrank from discussing the subject with each other, and from resuming the broken-off conversation of the night before. It was easy enough to avoid further talk at first. The police had come promptly and had done what they had to do with neatness and dispatch. But it all took time and when it was over the dawn was at hand and the two young men went off to their beds, glad of the excuse to postpone explanations.
But Topham could not stay away from the Embassy all the next day. He was leaving in the afternoon and to absent himself would have been more significant than anything he could say. So about noon he went to the embassy, uncertain just what he would say but resolved not to shirk any question that might rightfully be asked of him.
As he approached the door he saw Caesar standing on the steps staring around him with wildly rolling eyeballs. Evidently he was looking for someone, but as his eyes passed over Topham without pausing, the latter did not guess that he himself was the object of the darkey’s solicitude.
Only when he was quite near he spoke. “Well, Caesar!” he questioned, “Can’t you find him?”
“Find who?” The negro whirled round. “Fore Gord, Massa Topham! Whar you come from. If I ain’t been a-lookin’ an’ a-lookin foh you! Massa Rutile’s mighty anxious to see you, suh. Please to walk up to his room, suh. Please, suh!”
Topham ascended the stairs slowly and pushed open the door of the secretary’s office.
Rutile was bending over a huge atlas, but when the navy officer entered he pushed it aside. “Hello! Topham,” he called. “I was getting anxious about you. Your train goes pretty soon, doesn’t it?”