“You infected me with some of your own enthusiasm, Superintendent,” said Randall, with a graceful bow.
“Did I indeed?” said Hannasyde grimly. “And was it my enthusiasm which made you anxious to find out where Hyde's papers were kept?”
“Strictly speaking,” said Randall, “I wasn't anxious about his papers. But it is my business as executor to my late uncle to wind up his estate. I think Mr Hyde wants winding up with the rest, don't you?”
“You know very well that I do, Mr Matthews. But if you think that, I don't understand why you refused to cooperate with me in any way when I called on you before.”
Randall regarded him with an expression of courteous surprise. “My dear Superintendent, my recollection of your call is that you came to ask me what I knew of one John Hyde. I knew nothing of him, and I told you so. I don't remember being asked to co-operate with you?”
“You were aware that I attached importance to him, however. Why did you choose to visit Brown without telling me?”
“For very much the same reason that I chose to have my hair cut yesterday without telling you,” drawled Randall. “And—er—would not my telling you have been a little superfluous? I felt quite sure that the myrmidon on duty in Gadsby Row would tell you all about my visit.”
“He could not tell me what you had discovered, Mr Matthews, and you made no attempt to. How am I to take that?”
“Exactly as you please, of course,” replied Randall. “But I should like to remind you that I am not—ah, employed by Scotland Yard to gather information, and to assure you that if you imagine it has ever been my practice gratuitously to help policemen, or, in fact, anyone else, you have a singularly erroneous idea of my character.”
“Mr Matthews,” said Hannasyde bluntly, “I tell you frankly that the attitude you have chosen to adopt will do you no good. It leads me to suspect very strongly that for some reason best known to yourself you do not want your uncle's murderer to be discovered.”