“Not at all. Each profession demands brains, and is at its best in coining cute phrases. I’ve met scores of both tribes, and they’re like as peas in a pod.”
A bell rang.
“That’s the front door,” said Grant. “It’s Furneaux himself, I hope.”
But the visitor was P. C. Robinson, who actually smiled and saluted.
“Glad I’ve caught you before you went out, sir,” he said. “Mr. Furneaux asked me to tell you he had to hurry back to London. I was also to mention that he had got the whiskers.”
“What whiskers? Whose whiskers?”
“That’s all he said, sir—he’d got the whiskers.”
“Why, Owd Ben’s whiskers, of course. How dense you are, Jack!” put in Hart.
Now, this was the first Robinson had heard of whiskers in connection with the crime. He remembered Elkin’s make-up as Svengali, of course, and could have kicked himself for not associating earlier a set of sable whiskers with the black wig and the bullet-torn hat.
But, Owd Ben! What figure did that redoubtable ghost cut in the mystery?