Mr. Torry's eyes flashed like steel, and his mouth shut with a snap on the curt query: "Why?"
"Well," said Darrel slowly, "you see, I am a novelist who tries to set forth things as they are, for the benefit of the B. P. I have written one or two detective novels, and have explained the mysteries of divers crimes, simply because, in the first instance, I invented those crimes. To parody Gilbert's song, I made the crime fit the discovery, and, so to speak, built up a house of cards, to be knocked down in the final chapter. Now here, Mr. Torry," pursued the young man with uplifted finger, "here is a crime in actual life, of chance's own making, which I, not having conceived, cannot elucidate. I, therefore, wish to set my wits to work, in order to learn if they will serve me as well in fact as they have done in fiction. I desire to take an active part in the working out of this real problem, to see if my literary method of detective analysis is correct. On these grounds--purely selfish ones, I fear--I ask you to let me assist you."
Mr. Torry, who had listened to this long speech with his head on one side like an elderly bird, nodded at its conclusion. "I need not take time to consider your request," said he briskly; "you shall be my right hand if you will; but"--more gravely--"on one condition."
"And that is?----"
"That you let me guide you in every way, and that you take no step without consulting me."
"Surely! I am only too glad to bow to your experience and judgment."
"Then that settles it; we are partners. Your hand, Mr. Darrel," and novelist and detective shook hands on their agreement.
After coming to this conclusion, they settled themselves to discuss the important matter which had brought them together.
"Our task is to find out who killed this red-haired man, I suppose?" said Darrel slowly.
"Well, not exactly, sir. You see, I know who killed him," replied the detective, nodding.