"I have a clue, I think," she cried breathlessly.
"Yes?" His tone was quite noncommittal. Years of disillusionment had robbed him of all enthusiasm.
"I have a letter—this...." She drew Good's tattered scrawl from her bag. The detective held out his hand—and drew it back empty. It was his business to see things which were not intended for him to see, and her sudden flush was not lost upon him. Nor did the involuntary movement of her hand, with the letter, toward the bag, escape him. But by not so much as the flutter of an eyelid did his countenance change.
"No address given, I suppose?"
"No."
"May I see ... the envelope?" He noticed that her blush was more pronounced as she handed it to him. And as he held it up to the light and seemed to be studying it intently, he was really considering the different features of what was, even to him, a distinctly unusual case. Why was this young woman so tremendously desirous of locating an obscure journalist that she employed detectives for the purpose? And why did she colour and hold so tenaciously to a note from him? On the face of it it looked like a typical bit of soiled linen in high place—cases of which sort he was familiar with to the point of ennui. But his professional eminence had not been attained merely through industry: he was possessed of considerably more than a normal share of intuition—and intuition made the natural hypothesis untenable. He shrugged his shoulders. To find Good—as he studied the postmark on the envelope, he dismissed that problem as unworthy of his ability. But to explain why Miss Judith Wynrod wanted to find him—that, he admitted quite frankly to himself, was another matter.
Matters which he did not understand were nevertheless an inevitable part of his daily routine. He had long since ceased to allow any diversion from the hard business in hand by even the most fascinating of speculation. And obstacles did not halt him long. Like the ant, he never stopped to scale them: he went around. It was very much quicker—and time was of importance.
As if it were of trifling consequence, he handed back the letter from Good. "I'll phone you when we learn anything," he said indifferently.
"You think—you can find him?"
The detective raised his palms. "That is hard to say."