“It's serious enough for his relatives,” Francis objected.
“Not if they understood the situation,” the detective rejoined. “Assure them from me that nothing of consequence has happened to that young man. I have made enquiries at the gymnasium in Holborn, and in other directions. I am convinced that his absence from home is voluntary, and that there is no cause for alarm as to his welfare.”
“Then the sooner you make your way down to Kensington and tell his mother so, the better,” Francis said, a little severely. “Don't forget that I put you on to this.”
“Quite right, sir,” the detective acquiesced, “and I am grateful to you. The fact of it is that in making my preliminary investigations with regard to the disappearance of Mr. Wilmore, I have stumbled upon a bigger thing. Before many weeks are past, I hope to be able to unearth one of the greatest scandals of modern times.”
“The devil!” Francis muttered.
He looked thoughtfully, almost anxiously at his companion. Shopland's face reflected to the full his usual confidence. He had the air of a man buoyant with hope and with stifled self-satisfaction.
“I am engaged,” he continued, “upon a study of the methods and habits of one whom I believe to be a great criminal. I think that when I place my prisoner in the bar, Wainwright and these other great artists in crime will fade from the memory.”
“Is Sir Timothy Brast your man?” Francis asked quietly.
His companion frowned portentously.
“No names,” he begged.