The tradesman looked amazed. "Capture a criminal?" he repeated.
"Yes. On Sunday morning last, after one o'clock, the man to whom that shirt belonged was murdered."
"Murdered, sir!"
"Yes; stabbed to the heart in Mortality-lane."
"Dear, dear!" cried Mr. Harcot in much agitation. "You don't say so! I noticed an account of the tragedy in the Star--an early issue, Mr. Darrel, published at two o'clock; but I did not think that a customer of ours was the victim. How very dreadful! Who is the unfortunate gentleman?"
"That is what I wish you to tell me, Mr. Harcot."
"With pleasure, with pleasure; but if you will excuse my saying so, sir, I did not know that you were an officer of the law."
"Nor am I," rejoined Darrel drily. "I am a novelist; but the detective in charge of this case has permitted me to assist him."
"Oh, indeed, sir," replied Mr. Harcot, considerably astonished. "If you will permit me, sir, I will look up our books."
Washing his hands with invisible soap, and bowing politely, Mr. Harcot vanished, leaving Darrel to his own thoughts. In about ten minutes he returned, looking very pale and concerned. Frank was a trifle surprised at this agitation.