"It doesn't read like a fake," said the other.
"Admitting your authority on the subject of fakes, Tom," said T. B.,—they were members of the same club, which fact in itself is a license for rudeness,—"I am still in the dark. Why does this—what is his name?"
"Escoltier."
"Why does this man Escoltier write to a newspaper, instead of coming straight to the police?"
"Because he is a Frenchman, I should imagine," said the editor. "The French have the newspaper instinct more highly developed than the English."
T. B. looked at his watch.
"Will he come, do you think?"
"I have wired to him," said the editor.
T. B. read the paper again. It was written in execrable English, but its purport was clear.
The writer could solve the mystery of Hyatt's death, and for the matter of that of the Moss murder.