"From a sense of public duty," replied Brent.
"But I understand that you are a stranger, or a comparative stranger, to the town?" suggested the inspector.
"I am a burgess, a resident, and a property-owner in the town. I took up this work—which I mean to see right through!—in succession to my cousin, John Wallingford, late Mayor of this borough, who was murdered in this very hall," said Brent. "There are men here who know that he was working day and night to bring about the financial reforms which I advocate."
The inspector moved uneasily in his seat at the sound of the word which Brent emphasized in his reference to his cousin.
"I am sure I sympathize with you, Mr. Brent," he said. "I have been much grieved to hear of the late Mayor's sad fate. But you say you have voluntarily taken up his work? Did he leave you any facts, figures, statistics, particulars, to work on?"
"If he had known that I was going to take up his work he would doubtless have left me plenty," replied Brent. "But he was murdered! He had such things—a certain note-book, filled with his discoveries."
"Where is that book?" inquired the inspector. "Can it be produced?"
"It cannot," said Brent. "It was stolen when my cousin was killed."
The inspector hesitated, shuffling his papers.