“Gwendoline Hillmer.”
He forwarded the message with a note to the detective, asking him to be present.
About one o’clock Corbett turned up.
“Guess I slept well last night after the excitement,” he said, with a pleasant smile. “You seemed to skeer those chaps more with a few words, Mr. Bruce, than I did with a revolver.”
“The English police are not so much afraid of revolvers as they are of making mistakes,” was the answer.
“Now, is that so? On our side they wouldn’t have stopped to argy. Both of ’em would have drawn on me at once.”
“Then I am glad, for everybody’s sake, Mr. Corbett, that the affair happened in London.”
“Why, sure. But tell me. Has my friend Mensmore been getting himself into trouble?”
“Not so much as it looks. Others appear to have involved him without his knowledge, and he has lent color to the accusations by involuntary actions of a suspicious nature.”
“Well, if it is permissible, I should like to hear the straight story.”