“I am neither a detective, Mr. Coulson,” he said, “nor a secret service agent,—in fact, I am nothing of that sort at all. I have a friend, however, who for certain reasons does not care to approach you himself, but who is nevertheless very much interested in a particular event, or rather incident, in which you are concerned.”
“Good!” Mr. Coulson declared. “Get right on.”
“That friend,” Mr. Gaynsforth continued calmly, “is prepared to pay a thousand pounds for full information and proof as to the nature of those papers which were stolen from Mr. Hamilton Fynes on the night of March 22nd.”
“A thousand pounds,” Mr. Coulson repeated. “Gee whiz!”
“He is also,” the Englishman continued, “prepared to pay another thousand for a satisfactory explanation of the murder of Mr. Richard Vanderpole on the following day.”
“Say, your friend’s got the stuff!” Mr. Coulson remarked admiringly.
“My friend is not a poor man,” Mr. Gaynsforth admitted. “You see, there’s a sort of feeling abroad that these two things are connected. I am not working on behalf of the police. I am not working on behalf of any one who desires the least publicity. But I am working for some one who wants to know and is prepared to pay.”
“That’s a very interesting job you’re on, and no mistake,” Mr. Coulson declared. “I wonder you waste time coming over here on the spree when you’ve got a piece of business like that to look after.”
“I came over here,” Mr. Gaynsforth replied, “entirely on the matter I have mentioned to you.”
“What, over here to Paris?” Mr. Coulson exclaimed.