“Nothing definite, I am sorry, to say,” was the other's reluctant admission.
Francis hung up his hat, threw himself into his easy-chair and lit a cigarette.
“The lad's brother is one of my oldest friends, Shopland,” he said. “He is naturally in a state of great distress.”
The detective scratched his chin thoughtfully.
“I said 'nothing definite' just now, sir,” he observed. “As a rule, I never mention suspicions, but with you it is a different matter. I haven't discovered the slightest trace of Mr. Reginald Wilmore, or the slightest reason for his disappearance. He seems to have been a well-conducted young gentleman, a little extravagant, perhaps, but able to pay his way and with nothing whatever against him. Nothing whatever, that is to say, except one almost insignificant thing.”
“And that?”
“A slight tendency towards bad company, sir. I have heard of his being about with one or two whom we are keeping our eye upon.”
“Bobby Fairfax's lot, by any chance?”
Shopland nodded.
“He was with Jacks and Miss Daisy Hyslop, a night or two before he disappeared. I am not sure that a young man named Morse wasn't of the party, too.”