There's only one man who could do that,' I said. 'And he's probably dead by now. But if he weren't he could give you the answers you want. He knows Norway-' I stopped then and shrugged my shoulders. That was the trouble,' I added. 'He spent too much time in Norway — his own time and other people's money.'
Sir Clinton's gaze was fixed on me and there was almost a glint of excitement in his eyes. 'You mean George Farnell, don't you?' he said.
I nodded. 'But it's ten years since he disappeared.'
'I know.' Sir Clinton's fingers drummed a tattoo on the leather surface of his brief case. Two weeks ago our representative in Norway cabled from Oslo that there were rumours of new mineral discoveries in the central part of the country. Ever since then I've been trying to trace George Farnell. His mother and father are both dead. He seems to have had no relatives and no friends. Those who knew him before his conviction haven't heard from him since he disappeared. I had a detective agency on the job. No luck. Then I put an advertisement in the personal column of The Times.'
'Any luck there?' I asked as he paused.
'Yes. I had several replies — including the fishmonger. Apparently fishmongers now read The Times.'
'But what made him connect that lump of ore with your advertisement?'
'This.' Sir Clinton produced a filthy slip of paper. It was stained and stiffened with the congealed blood of the whale meat and had split along the folds. Through the dark bloodstains spidery writing showed in a vague blur. Two lines of what looked like poetry — and then a signature.
Ten years! It seemed incredible. 'I suppose it is his signature?' I asked.
'Yes.' Sir Clinton passed a slip of paper across to me. 'That's a specimen,' he said.