“The devil!” ejaculated the journalist staring at the painted bird; “then the man murdered Grison after all.”
“I’m not sure. I have my doubts.”
“But hang it, man, you know that Grison was murdered for the sake of the original of this.” He laid his finger on the sketch, “and if Sorley has it, he must have taken it out of the murdered man’s room.”
“Well you won’t be so sure of that when you have heard my story,” said Alan in a tart way, for his nerves were all jangling.
“Tell it, old son,” remarked Latimer, recovering his pipe, and not another word did he utter until he was in full possession of Alan’s information.
The solicitor told him everything from the time he had arrived at Belstone until the moment of departure, and carried up the narrative as far as London by relating how Jotty had been haunting the office.
“And now that I am back, the little fool won’t turn up,” finished Fuller, greatly exasperated, “and I dare not send for him.”
“No,” nodded Dick grimly, “that is very obvious. The quieter you keep this business the better it will be until we get at its truth. Hum! It’s a most extraordinary complication, Alan.” He stared at the sketch which was now lying on the table. “Have you solved this riddle?”
“No. So far as I can see there isn’t any riddle to solve.”
“It looks like it,” murmured Dick, looking hard at Fuller’s artistic effort; “so my sixth sense was right when it told me that Morad-Bakche was mixed up in the matter.”