Mr. Bundercombe plunged into the middle of my little protest.
"You're all right, Paul!" he assured me. "Cullen's in the house at the present moment and there are two other detectives with him. They are letting me run this thing simply because I know more about it than they do; and for certain reasons I'm not giving my whole hand away. Don't you worry, Paul! You'll be all right this time. Listen!"
We heard a very feeble ring at the bell. Mr. Bundercombe nodded.
"That's Stanley," he whispered. "Sit down!"
A man was shown into the room a moment later. I leaned forward in my chair so as to see more distinctly the hero of one of the most famous cases that had ever been tried in a criminal court. Of his renowned good looks there was little left. He stood there, still tall, with high cheekbones, furtive eyes and long mouth. He wore good clothes, his linen was irreproachable, and he kept his gloves on. Nevertheless the stamp of the prison was upon him.
"Mr. Stanley?" Mr. Bundercombe said. "Good! I am glad you were prevailed upon to come."
"I am still wholly in the dark as to what this means!" the newcomer remarked.
"I'll tell you in a very few sentences," Mr. Bundercombe promised. "Will you sit down?"
"I prefer to stand," Stanley replied, "until I know exactly in whose house
I am and what your interest in me is."
"Very well!" Mr. Bundercombe agreed. "Here is my history: My name is Joseph H. Bundercombe. I am an American manufacturer. I have made a fortune in manufacturing Bundercombe's Reaping Machines. You may call it a hobby, if you like, but I have always been interested in criminals and criminal methods—not the lowest type, but men who have pitted their brains against others and robbed them.