"Mortlake of course knows where she is?"
"I can't say. Last time I was at the house to inquire—it was at the end of November—he hadn't been seen there for six weeks. He wrote to her, of course, sometimes—the landlady knew his writing."
Wimp looked Denzil straight in the eyes, and said, "You mean, of course, to accuse Mortlake of the murder of Mr. Constant?"
"N-n-no, not at all," stammered Denzil, "only you know what Mr. Grodman wrote to the Pell Mell. The more we know about Mr. Constant's life the more we shall know about the manner of his death. I thought my information would be valuable to you, and I brought it."
"And why didn't you take it to Mr. Grodman?"
"Because I thought it wouldn't be valuable to me."
"You wrote Criminals I have Caught?"
"How—how do you know that?" Wimp was startling him to-day with a vengeance.
"Your style, my dear Mr. Cantercot. The unique, noble style."
"Yes, I was afraid it would betray me," said Denzil. "And since you know, I may tell you that Grodman's a mean curmudgeon. What does he want with all that money and those houses—a man with no sense of the Beautiful? He'd have taken my information, and given me more kicks than ha'pence for it, so to speak."