The amazement that swept over Wallace Powell showed that the remark had struck home.
The man began to clench his fists nervously. He started to rise; then sat down.
He looked at Harry Vincent; but his eyes were more than hunted. They were beseeching.
Harry detected their expression. He followed it to advantage.
"Powell," he said, "I never met you before. But you may consider me a friend. You can also assume me to be a friend of Herbert Brockley's.
"There are reasons why I wish to learn who caused his death. I believe that you can tell me. You owe that to Brockley, don't you?"
"Perhaps," said Powell slowly. "But that makes you a detective, doesn't it?"
"Not a bit of it," declared Harry emphatically. "Look here, Powell. I know what you're after. Money!
You can't be blamed for that.
"I don't happen to need cash" — he pulled a massive roll of bills from his pocket, and Powell stared goggle-eyed at the yellow-backed currency — "and, furthermore, I'm willing to spend some. How does that sound?"