“Um!” said the stranger, consulting an English repeater, “it’s time for me to move on. Is this your regular beat, my friend? Ah! then we may meet again. Good morning, sir.”
“That’s a queer jockey,” muttered No. 46. “When he first came up, I made sure he was looking for the Agency—looking just for curiosity, I reckon.”
And the stranger, as he strolled down the street, communed thus with himself:
“So these two star detectives have never been rivals yet. The Chief has never been anxious to see what detectives can do, I suppose. This looks like my opportunity. Messrs. Vernet and Stanhope, you shall have a chance to try your skill against each other, and upon a desperate case: and the wit that wins need never work another.”
CHAPTER II.
ODDLY EMPLOYED.
While the stranger was thus communing with himself, and while Van Vernet was striding toward that fashionable quarter of the city which contained the splendid Warburton mansion, Richard Stanhope, perched upon one corner of a baize covered table, his hands clasped about one knee, his hat pushed far back upon his head, his whole air that of a man in the presence of a familiar spirit, and perfectly at his ease, was saying to his Chief:
“So you want me to put this business through alone? I don’t half like it.”
“You are equal to it, Dick.”