A very nervous white-faced young man sat in the green leather armchair in Dr. Brand’s consulting-room. He had shown the telegram, and jerked out a few incoherent sentences; after which Sir Deryck, by means of carefully chosen questions, had arrived at the main facts. He now sat at his table considering them.
Then, turning in his revolving-chair, he looked steadily at Billy.
“Cathcart,” he said, quietly, “what reason have you for being so certain of Lord Ingleby’s death, and that this telegram is therefore a forgery?”
Billy moistened his lips. “Oh, confound it!” he said. “I picked up the pieces!”
“I see,” said Sir Deryck; and looked away.
“I have never told a soul,” said Billy. “It is not a pretty story. But I can give you details, if you like.”
“I think you had better give me details,” said Sir Deryck, gravely.
So, with white lips, Billy gave them.
The doctor rose, buttoning his coat. Then he poured out a glass of water and handed it to Billy.
“Come,” he said. “Fortunately I know a very cute detective from our own London force who happens just now to be in Cairo. We must go to Scotland Yard for his address, and a code. In fact we had better work it through them. You have done the right thing, Billy; and done it promptly; but we have no time to lose.”