Francis spent a quarter of an hour wandering around. When they left the place, Shopland turned to him with a smile.
“Now, sir,” he said, “shall I tell you at whose expense that place is run?”
“I think I can guess,” Francis replied. “I should say that Sir Timothy Brast was responsible for it.”
The detective nodded. He was a little disappointed.
“You know about his collection of broken-down horses in the park at The Walled House, too, then, I suppose? They come whinnying after him like a flock of sheep whenever he shows himself.”
“I know about them, too,” Francis admitted. “I was present once when he got out of his car, knocked a carter down who was ill-treating a horse, bought it on the spot and sent it home.”
Shopland smiled, inscrutably yet with the air of one vastly pleased.
“These little side-shows,” he said, “are what help to make this, which I believe will be the greatest case of my life, so supremely interesting. Any one of my fraternity,” he continued, with an air of satisfaction, “can take hold of a thread and follow it step by step, and wind up with the handcuffs, as I did myself with the young man Fairfax. But a case like this, which includes a study of temperament, requires something more.”
They were seated once more in the taxicab, on their way westward. Francis for the first time was conscious of an utterly new sensation with regard to his companion. He watched him through half-closed eyes—an insignificant-looking little man whose clothes, though neat, were ill-chosen, and whose tie was an offense. There was nothing in the face to denote unusual intelligence, but the eyes were small and cunning and the mouth dogged. Francis looked away out of the window. A sudden flash of realisation had come to him, a wave of unreasoning but positive dislike.
“When do you hope to bring your case to an end?” he asked.