On mature reflection, Whitaker had decided that it would be as well to edit his already sketchy explanation of all reference to the putative spy who wasn't Drummond; in other words, to let Ember's sleeping detective instincts lie. And with this private understanding with himself, he felt a little aggrieved because of the quarter toward which Ember presently saw fit to swing their talk.
"You haven't seen Drummond—or any signs of him, have you?"
"Eh—what?" Whitaker sat up, startled. "No, I ... er ... how should I?"
"I merely wondered. You see, I.... Well, to tell the truth, I took the liberty of camping on his trail, while in town, with the idea of serving him with notice to behave. But he'd anticipated me, apparently; he'd cleared out of his accustomed haunts—got away clean. I couldn't find any trace of him."
"You're a swell sleuth," Whitaker commented critically.
"You be damn'.... That's the true reason why I ran down to-day, when I really couldn't spare the time; I was a bit worried—afraid he'd maybe doped out my little scheme for keeping you out of harm's way."
"Oh, I say!" Whitaker expostulated, touched by this evidence of disinterested thoughtfulness. "You don't mean—"
"On the contrary, I firmly believe him responsible for that attack on you the other night. The man's a dangerous monomaniac; brooding over his self-wrought wrongs has made him such."
"You persuade yourself too much, old man. You set up an inference and idolize it as an immortal truth. Why, you had me going for a while. Only last night there was a fellow skulking round here, and I was just dippy enough, thanks to your influence, to think he resembled Drummond. But this morning I got a good look at him, and he's no more Drummond than you are."
"The hell you say!" Ember sat up, eyes snapping. "Who was he then?"