With an effort he put it to the back of his mind.
“It’s no affair of mine,” he repeated to himself again and again.
But even that truism failed to exorcise his demon. Ever and again the Dangerfield Secret crept up out of his mental background and insisted on forcing itself upon his conscious thoughts, and with each appearance it took on a slightly different and more definite form. He gathered no fresh data, but things which he knew already began to fit themselves together in his mind, until at last, in a flash of illumination, he seemed to see the whole puzzle completed.
“So that’s the Dangerfield Secret!”
Then, as the fuller implications of the thing forced themselves upon him:
“No wonder they were afraid. Poor devils!”
He ran over the evidence once more, and found himself forced to believe that he had reached a correct solution. Everything pointed in the same direction. Not only so, but other things now fitted themselves into the scheme, things which he had noticed casually, and had not hitherto thought of, connecting together. And then a further conjecture shot across his mind, completing the whole history of the Dangerfield Secret.
“That’s it, almost certainly,” he reflected. “They’ve made nothing of it themselves, though they’re cute enough. But I wonder . . .”
He paused, in doubt for a moment.
“It’s a very long shot; but a fresh mind often sees a thing that other people overlook. Perhaps one might lend them a hand. Luck’s been with me, so far. Let’s press it while it lasts. If it’s a wash-out there’s no harm done.”