“You weren’t mistaken at all,” interrupted the other coolly. “You saw me on Whitehall. I was peddling key-rings. My name is Joshua Broad. You haven’t anything on me for trading in a false name.”
The detective lit his cigar before he spoke.
“This apartment must cost you a whole lot to keep up,” he said slowly, “and I don’t blame you for trying to earn something on the side. But it seems to me that peddling key-rings is a very poor proposition for a first-class business man.”
Joshua Broad nodded.
“I haven’t made a million out of that business,” he said, “but it amuses me, Mr. Elk. I am something of a philosopher.”
He lit a cigar and settled himself comfortably in a deep, chintz-covered arm-chair, his legs crossed, the picture of contentment.
“As an American, I am interested in social problems, and I have found that the best way to understand the very poor of any country is to get right down amongst them.”
His tone was easy, apologetic, but quite self-possessed.
“I think I forestalled any question on your part as to whether I had a licence in my own name, by telling you that I had.”
Elk settled his glasses more firmly on his nose, and his eyes strayed to Mr. Broad’s pocket, whither the pistol had returned.