“So this find of mine is of great importance?”
“Undoubtedly. I remember its contents sufficiently, but you will let me see it again if necessary?”
“With pleasure, sir. And that reminds me. You never returned that small bit of iron to me. You recollect I lent it to you some time since.”
“Perfectly. Come with me. I will model it in wax and give it to you.”
“All right, sir; but as we are here I may as well continue my search. I may drop on something else of value.”
Bruce resumed his seat, and did not stir until the detective had completely rummaged the cabinet. The reading of that queer epistle from Corbett to “Bertie”—from the real Simon Pure to the sham one—from one man to his double—had stopped him at the very threshold of disclosure.
The document impressed him as being genuine. If so, who on earth was Corbett, and why had Mensmore taken his name, if that was the solution of the tangle?
Whatever the explanation, he would not jump to a conclusion. The web had closed too securely round Mensmore to allow of escape. Hence, Bruce could bide his time. Another week might solve many elements in the case now indistinct and nebulous. He would wait.
The detective finally satisfied himself there was nothing else in the cabinet. He approached the fireplace, peered into every vase on the over-mantel, picked with his penknife at the back of the frame to feel for other letters, and in doing so several times kicked the fender.
The barrister vaguely wondered whether the man of method would note the missing portion of the iron “dog.”