“Archibald Warburton lies dying; his little daughter has been stolen.”
“What!” The detective started, then mastering his surprise, said quietly: “Tell me about it.”
Briefly the lawyer related the story as he knew it, and then utter silence fell between them, while Richard Stanhope lost himself in meditation. At last he said:
“It’s a strange state of affairs, but it makes an immediate interview with the lady doubly necessary. Will you arrange it at once?”
“You are clever at a disguise: can you make yourself look like a gentleman of my cloth?”
“Easily,” replied Stanhope, with a laugh.
“Then I’ll send Leslie—Mrs. Warburton, a note at once, and announce the coming of myself and a friend, on a matter of business.”
An hour later, a carriage stopped before the Warburton doorway, and two gentlemen alighted.
The first was Mr. Follingsbee, who carried in his hand a packet of legal-looking papers. The other was a trim, prim, middle-aged gentleman, tightly buttoned-up in a spotless frock coat, and looking preternaturally grave and severe.
They entered the house together, and the servant took up to Leslie the cards of Mr. Follingsbee and “S. Richards, attorney.”