He had gone as far as Canal Street, and was just about to turn the corner, when he heard a low, chirping sort of whistle. All in a second his face changed its expression. The merry wrinkles melted and his mustache drew itself compactly together. But he did not turn his head or alter his gait. He walked on for several steps until he heard the whistle again, and this time its tone was sharp. He stopped, wheeled around, and encountered two men.
One of these was a darkly tinted, strongly built man, with big brown eyes, tremendous arms, and an oppressive manner. To him Mr. Ricketty at once addressed himself.
"Ah, my dear Inspector!" he cried gayly. "I'm amazingly happy to see you. You're looking so well and hearty."
"Yes, Steve," replied the darkly tinted man, "I'm feeling fairly well, Steve, and how is it with you?"
"So, so."
"I haven't happened to meet you recently, Steve."
"Well, no, Inspector. I've been West, but my brother's death—"
"I never knew you had a brother, Steve?"
"Oh, yes, Inspector; and a charming fellow he was. He died last week and—"
"Was he honest, Steve?"