Presently his mood changed and a wave of pessimism swept over him. The identification of the underclothes was not, after all, the identification of the body. Such an astute criminal as he was dealing with might have changed the dead man’s clothes. But when he reminded himself that the man who called for the crate resembled Berlyn, the thing became more convincing. However, it had not been proved, and he wanted certainty.
Fortunately there was the birthmark. French had examined it carefully and was satisfied that it was genuine. Who, he wondered, could identify it?
The most likely person, he thought, was Jefferson Pyke. It would be worth a journey to London to have the point settled. That night, therefore, he took the sleeping-car express to Paddington.
Daw had given him the address—17b, Kepple Street, off Russell Square, and before ten next morning he was there.
Jefferson Pyke was a clean-shaven man of about forty, of rather more than medium height and stoutly built. He was a study in browns: brown eyes, a dusky complexion, hair nearly black, brown clothes and shoes, and a dark-brown tie. He looked keenly at his visitor, then pointed to a chair.
“Mr. French?” he said, speaking deliberately. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“I’ll tell you, Mr. Pyke,” French answered. “First of all, here is my professional card. I want some help from you in an investigation I am making.”
Pyke glanced at the card and nodded.
“A case on which I was engaged took me recently to Ashburton, and while there I heard of the tragic death of Mr. Pyke and Mr. Berlyn of the Veda Works staff. I understand that Mr. Pyke was a relative of yours?”
“That is so. My first cousin.”