"I was," said the other slowly, "once, a private detective. Now—I'm a person of no particular employment, of independent means, with a penchant—you're at liberty to assume—for poking my nose into other people's business."
"Oh...."
A word, "blackmail," leapt into Whitaker's consciousness, and served to harden the hostility in his attitude.
"Mrs. George Pettit once employed me to find her sister, Miss Mary Ladislas, who had run away with a chauffeur named Morton," pursued the man, evenly. "That was about the time—shortly after—the death of Thurlow Ladislas; say, two months after the so-called elopement."
"Just a minute," said Whitaker suddenly—"by your leave—"
Ember bowed gravely. For a thought longer Whitaker's gaze bored into his eyes in vain effort to fathom what was going on behind them, the animus undiscovered by his words; then, remembering, he looked down at the cable message in his hand.
"Martin Ember (it ran) private agency 1435 Broadway Grace Pettit."
Whitaker folded the paper and put it away in a pocket.
"Go on, please," he said quietly.
"In those days," Mr. Ember resumed, "I did such things indifferently well. I had little trouble in following the runaways from Southampton to Greenport. There they parted. The girl crossed to the Connecticut shore, while the man went back to New York with the automobile. He turned the machine in at the Ladislas garage, by the way, and promptly fell into the hands of the police. He was wanted for theft in a former position, was arrested, convicted and sent to Sing Sing; where he presently died, I'm glad to say.... I thought this information might interest you."