“Put it away, then. I tell you it is not wanted. White, listen to me. You have hit upon the wrong man.”
“Wrong man!” cried the detective, feeling more confident in the barrister’s presence. “Why, I’ve had a cable about him from New York.”
“Possibly; but you’re mistaken, nevertheless. Mr. Corbett has not been within five thousand miles of England for years, possibly not in his life.”
“Bully for you, stranger!” broke in Corbett.
“Then who is Mr. Sydney H. Corbett whom you believe, as well as I, to be the murderer of Lady Dyke?”
“Steady, White. The last time I saw you I appealed to you to go slow. The man whom you want, simply because he happens to be the real occupant of these rooms, is at present travelling to London as fast he can from Florence, and his sister, Mrs. Hillmer, is with him.”
“Florence! Mrs. Hillmer!” gasped the policeman. “I’ve just arranged to have her watched there.”
“Your arrangements, though admirable, are somewhat late in the day.”
“Then what is her brother’s name?”