Beecot had half a mind to follow, so strange was the hint she had given him. Apparently, she knew something which connected him with Tray, and Paul wondered for the fiftieth time, if the boy had picked up the opal brooch. However, he decided to leave the matter alone for the present. Mrs. Purr, whom Deborah had engaged to iron, was always available, and Paul decided, that should anything point to Tray's being implicated in the finding of the opal serpent, that he would hand him over to Hurd, who would be better able to deal with such a keen young imp of the gutter. Thus making up his mind, Paul dismissed all thought of Mrs. Purr's mysterious utterance, and walked briskly to the nearest bus-stand, where he took a blue vehicle to the Bloomsbury district. All the way to his garret he dreamed of Sylvia, and poor though was the home he had left her in, he was thankful that she was there in the safe shelter of Mrs. Deborah Tawsey's arms.
It was five o'clock when Paul arrived at the door of the stairs leading to his attic, and here he was touched on the shoulder by no less a person than Mr. Billy Hurd. Only when he spoke did Paul recognize him by his voice, for the gentleman who stood before him was not the brown individual he knew as the detective. Mr. Hurd was in evening dress, with the neatest of patent boots and the tightest of white gloves. He wore a brilliantly-polished silk hat, and twirled a gold-headed cane. Also he had donned a smart blue cloth overcoat with a velvet collar and cuffs. But though his voice was the voice of Hurd, his face was that of quite a different person. His hair was dark and worn rather long, his moustache black and large, and brushed out à la Kaiser, and he affected an eye-glass as immovable as that of Hay's. Altogether a wonderfully changed individual.
"Hurd," said Paul, starting with surprise.
"It's my voice told you. But now—" he spoke a tone higher in a shrill sort of way and with a foreign accent—"vould you me discover, mon ami?" he inquired, with a genuine Parisian shrug.
"No. Why are you masquerading as a Frenchman, Hurd?"
"Not Hurd in this skin, Mr. Beecot. Comte de la Tour, à votre service," and he presented a thin glazed card with a coronet engraved on it.
"Well, Count," said Beecot, laughing, "what can I do for you?"
"Come up to your room," said the pseudo count, mounting the stairs; "there's something to be talked over between us."
"No bad news, I hope?"
"Ah, my poor friend," said the detective, in his usual genial voice, "you have had enough bad news, I am aware. To lose a lovely wife and a fine fortune at once. Eh, what a pity!"