“Yes. With the New York Classic. I’m the chap who gives the low-down on unsolved mysteries. That’s why I’m here tonight.”
“You — you—” The man with the pointed chin began to splutter, but suddenly controlled himself. “Just what,” he asked, with sudden dignity, “is the purpose of your visit? I never knew that newspaper reporters had the privilege of making forcible entry to a man’s home.”
“It wasn’t exactly a forcible entry,” declared Caulkins, with an agreeable smile. “I came in from the hallway when you left the door open.”
THE middle-aged man was studying his visitor closely. He had betrayed signs of nervousness at first; now he felt sure that the speaker was telling the truth.
“Well,” he said quietly, “we’ll forget this intrusion. I might call the police” — he waved his hand toward a telephone — “but I hardly think it’s necessary. If you are really a wise owl, Mr. Caulkins, you will leave here immediately.”
“Not until I have interviewed you,” came the firm reply.
“Interviewed me?” queried the tall man, with feigned surprise. “Why should you interview me? Perhaps you have mistaken me for some one else. My name is Joseph Dodd — Joseph T. Dodd—”
“That’s the name over the bell in the vestibule,” interrupted Caulkins, “but it isn’t your name. You’ve changed your appearance since I last saw you. That was more than a year ago, just before you disappeared — Justice Tolland!”
The older man did not reply. He stared at his visitor, wondering whether to order the reporter to leave or to engage in a discussion with him. Then anger gave way to an expression of cunning on the thin man’s face.
“Why do you think I am Tolland?” the man asked suddenly.