T. B. turned again to the contemplation of the handkerchief.
"If I were one of those funny detectives, Mr. Van Ingen, who live in books," he said sadly, "I could weave quite an interesting theory from this." He held the handkerchief to his nose and smelt it. "The scent is 'Simpatico,' therefore the owner must have lived in Spain; the workmanship is Parisian, therefore——" He threw the flimsy thing from him with a laugh. "This takes us no nearer to the Wady Barrage, my friend—no nearer to the mysterious millionaires who 'bear' the shares of worthy brewers. Let us go out into the open, and ask Heaven to drop a clue at our feet."
The two men turned their steps towards Whitehall, and were halfway to Trafalgar Square when a panting constable overtook them.
"There is a message from the man watching Sir George Calliper's house, sir," he said; "he wants you to go there at once."
"What is wrong?" asked T. B. quickly.
"A drunken man, sir, so far as I could understand."
"A what?"
T. B.'s eyebrows rose, and he smiled incredulously.
"A drunken man," repeated the man; "he's made two attempts to see Sir George——"
"Hail that cab," said T. B. "We'll drive round and see this extraordinary person."