"It's our code," replied the detective, "for 'Come back to the central office at once. Our connection with the case is at an end.'"
There was a trace of pain in Mark's face, as he handed his own telegram over for Saunders to read. It was from New York:
"Harvey, Sullivan and Riggs, your solicitors, wire us to find you and say that your brother is dead and that you are to return at once."
"I'm sorry, Griffin, very sorry." There was real sympathy in Saunders' voice. "Perhaps it is better that you should go. It may be a way out. Your Ambassador can help you. I've got to stay and face it. Yes, it would be better for you to go."
"You're wrong, Saunders." Mark's voice had a decided note in it. "My disappearance might complicate the international part of the situation. Baron Griffin was a member of the House of Lords, and quite a personage. And I am the only brother of that late personage. He had no children. I can fight better here—as Baron Griffin."
"Great Scott!" cried Saunders. "Come to think of it, you are Baron Griffin now!"
"Yes, I am, and only half sorry for it, much as I regret my brother's death. What are you going to do, Saunders?"
The detective looked embarrassed.
"I didn't intend to tell you, but I guess I will. I'm going to throw up my job. I'm in this thing and I'm going to stay and see it out."
"Good old chap!" answered Mark. "I thought you would. But can you afford it?"