The thing which has caused the disquiet and the frown, lies upon the desk beside him, just under his uneasy right hand. A letter; a letter from California, from Walter Parks.
It was brief and business-like; it explained nothing; and it puzzled the astute Chief not a little.
John Ainsworth is better; so much better that we shall start in two days for your city. His interests are identical with mine, and he may be able, in some way, to throw a little light upon the Arthur Pearson mystery.
Walter Parks had set out for Australia, drawn thither by an advertisement mentioning the name of Arthur Pearson. It had also contained the name of John Ainsworth; but this had seemed of secondary interest to the queer Englishman. He had distinctly stated that he knew nothing of John Ainsworth; had never seen him.
And yet here he was, if this letter were not a hoax, journeying eastward at that very moment, in company with this then unknown man.
Evidently, he had not visited Australia; that he could have done so was scarcely possible. And he was coming back with this John Ainsworth to urge on the search for the murderer of Arthur Pearson.
They would hope much, expect much, from Vernet and Stanhope. And what had been done?
Since the day when Stanhope had suddenly appeared in his presence, to announce his readiness to begin work upon the Arthur Pearson case, nothing had been heard from him.
“You will not see me again,” he had said, “until I can tell who killed Arthur Pearson.” And he was keeping his word.
Four weeks had passed since Stanhope had made his farewell announcement, and nothing was known of his whereabouts. Where was he? What was he doing? What had he done?