"But does the Padre know?"
Mark's eyes began to steel and glitter. He fixed them on Saunders, and his voice came very steady and quiet.
"Know what, Saunders? Know what?"
"Know what? Why, that Ruth Atheson is not Ruth Atheson."
"Then who is she?"
Saunders drew a deep breath, and stared hard at Mark for what seemed a long time to both. The detective broke the tension.
"Griffin," he almost shouted, "either I am a fool, and ought to be given a job as town crier, or you are the cleverest I've ever gone up against, or—"
"Or," Mark's voice was still quiet, "I may be entirely lacking in the knowledge which you possess. Get it off your mind, man—better do it soon, for you will have to later on, you know. I have quite made up my mind on that."
"Yes," Saunders seemed half satisfied, "yes, you may not know—it really looks as if you didn't. Are you the simon-pure Mark Griffin, brother of Baron Griffin of the Irish peerage?"
"Yes. Where did you get that last bit of information?"