She nodded in agreement.
“The way you mended the cistern last week beats me,” she said. “After that I’ll believe anything. Who is this Double Dan?”
“He’s a swindler,” said Mr. Superbus, “a parasite of society, a human vampire—but I’ll get him!”
“I’m surprised the police don’t go after him,” she said.
He was naturally irritated, and his laughter lacked sincerity.
“The police! No, mother, the man who’s going to get Double Dan has got to be clever, he’s got to be cunning, he’s got to be artful.”
“I don’t know anybody artfuller than you, Julius,” said his wife graciously, and Mr. Superbus accepted the compliment as his right.
He might speak disparagingly of the police, as he did; as all private detectives, authors of mystery stories and such-like are in the habit of doing. But his knowledge that Double Dan was in London, the hint that had been whispered up from the underworld that Mr. Gordon Selsbury was to be the new victim; these and a hundred other little pointers of incalculable value came to him fourth-hand from Scotland Yard. After his midday dinner he put on his coat and strolled to Cheynel Gardens. Gordon was out, and he was received by Diana.
“Why, of course, you’re Mr.——”
“Superbus,” said Julius.