“I think one of you gentlemen,” he said, curtly but respectfully, “was present at the affair in Copper Street last night, and drew my attention very strongly to a particular man.”
Rupert half rose from his chair, with eyes like diamonds, but the constable went on calmly, referring to a paper.
“A young man with grey hair. Had light grey clothes, very good, but torn in the struggle. Gave his name as Drummond Keith.”
“This is amusing,” said Basil, laughing. “I was in the very act of clearing that poor officer's character of rather fanciful aspersions. What about him?”
“Well, sir,” said the constable, “I took all the men's addresses and had them all watched. It wasn't serious enough to do more than that. All the other addresses are all right. But this man Keith gave a false address. The place doesn't exist.”
The breakfast table was nearly flung over as Rupert sprang up, slapping both his thighs.
“Well, by all that's good,” he cried. “This is a sign from heaven.”
“It's certainly very extraordinary,” said Basil quietly, with knitted brows. “It's odd the fellow should have given a false address, considering he was perfectly innocent in the—”
“Oh, you jolly old early Christian duffer,” cried Rupert, in a sort of rapture, “I don't wonder you couldn't be a judge. You think every one as good as yourself. Isn't the thing plain enough now? A doubtful acquaintance; rowdy stories, a most suspicious conversation, mean streets, a concealed knife, a man nearly killed, and, finally, a false address. That's what we call glaring goodness.”
“It's certainly very extraordinary,” repeated Basil. And he strolled moodily about the room. Then he said: “You are quite sure, constable, that there's no mistake? You got the address right, and the police have really gone to it and found it was a fraud?”