"It's not business in the ordinary sense, Mr. Smeaton," I made shift to get out. "But it is business for all that. The fact is—you'll remember that the Berwick police sent you a telegram some days ago asking did you know anything about a man named John Phillips?"
He showed a sudden interest at that, and he regarded me with a slight smile.
"You aren't a detective?" he inquired.
"No—I'm a solicitor's clerk," I replied. "From Berwick—my principal,
Mr. Lindsey, has to do with that case."
He nodded at a pile of newspapers, which stood, with a heavy book on top of it, on a side table near his desk.
"So I see from these papers," he remarked. "I've read all I could about the affairs of both Phillips and Crone, ever since I heard that my name and address had been found on Phillips. Has any further light been thrown on that? Of course, there was nothing much in my name and address being found on the man, nor would there be if they were found on any man. As you see, I'm a general agent for various sorts of foreign merchandise, and this man had likely been recommended to me—especially if he was from America."
"There's been no further light on that matter, Mr. Smeaton," I answered. He had pointed me to a chair at his desk side by that time, and we were mutually inspecting each other. "Nothing more has been heard on that point."
"Then—have you come purposely to see me about it?" he asked.
"Not at all!" said I. "I was passing along this street below, and I saw your name on the door, and I remembered it—and so I just came up."
"Oh!" he said, looking at me rather blankly. "You're staying in
Dundee—taking a holiday?"