“A murder has been committed—or what is as good as a murder, for the man, I believe, is at his last gasp,” he exultingly began. “There will be a hanging match—that is, if you can trace and capture the murderer. Now, Mr McGovan, you’re said to be clever, but you haven’t got him yet, and never will unless you get my help.”
“Your help?” I echoed in amazement; “why, who are you, and how can you help me?”
“My name you know, and I am not unknown to fame, I am an actor as well as a photographic artist. I have trod the boards with some success, and you know that that in itself is a kind of training in acuteness eminently fitting one for detective work.”
I could not see it, and said so. I thought him an escaped lunatic.
“Mark me, Mr McGovan,” he continued, quite unabashed, “I have in my possession the only means whereby you can trace and arrest the murderer. Now just tell me what it is worth, and we may come to a bargain.”
“What it is worth?” I said, with a grin. “I don’t know that it is worth anything till I try it.”
“A hundred pounds? Surely they’ll offer that as a reward for such information as shall lead to the capture of the murderer?”
“I don’t know that they’ll offer a hundred pence,” was my reply. “Tell me what you know, and if it is of any use I will see that you are suitably rewarded.”
“Ah, that won’t suit me,” he answered with great decision. “I will leave you to think over my offer; you know where to find me when you have made up your mind.”
He was moving off, after making a low and stagey bow, but I got between him and the door, and brought out a pair of handcuffs.