"Furneaux!"
And Winter, glancing round, saw Clarke's face merry, like carved ivory in a state of gayety, showing a tooth or two lacking, and browned fangs. For a moment he stared at Clarke, without comprehension, till the absurd truth rushed in upon him that Clarke was really taking it in jest. Then he, too, laughed even more loudly.
"Ha! ha!—yes, Furneaux! 'Pon my honor, the funniest thing! Furneaux it is for sure!"
"Officer in charge of the case!"
"Ripping! By gad, I shall have to apply for a warrant!"
Finding his chief in this rare good humor, Clarke thought to obtain a little useful information.
"Do you know any of the Anarchist crowd with those initials, sir?" he asked.
"I think I do; yes, a Frenchman. Or it may be a German. There is no telling whom she means—no telling. But where on earth did you come across this diary?"
"You remember the lady's-maid, Pauline, the girl who couldn't be found to give evidence at the inquest? I was following the Anarchist Antonio, who seemed to be prowling after some ladies in a cab a day or two ago, and the door that was opened to the ladies when their cab stopped was opened by—Pauline."
Then he told how he had obtained the diary, and volunteered a theory as to the girl's possession of it.