“Why do you assume that?”
“Like Eugene Aram, he can’t keep away from the scene of his crime.”
Winter felt he was skating on thin ice, so hastened to escape.
“Detective work is nearly all guessing,” he said sententiously, “yet one must beware of what I may term obvious guessing. If cause and effect were so closely allied in certain classes of crime my department would cease to exist, and the protection of life and property might be left safely to the ordinary police. By the way, P. C. Robinson has been rather inactive during two whole days. That makes me suspicious. What’s he up to? Can you throw a light on him, Peters?”
The journalist knew that he was being told peremptorily to cease prying. He kicked Hart under the table.
“Hi!” yelled Wally. “What’s the matter? Strike your matches on your own shin, not mine.”
“Peters is announcing that the discussion is now closed,” said Winter firmly.
“Very well. He needn’t emphasize the warning by a hob-nailed boot. When my injured feelings have recovered I’ll discourse to you of strange folk and stranger doings on the banks of the Rio de la Plata, and your stock as an Argentine plutocrat will rise one hundred per cent, next time you’re badgered by a man who knows the country.”
“Meanwhile, Robinson is hot-foot on the Elkin trail,” laughed Peters. “His face was a study to-day when the groom supplied details of the picture-buying.”
“Furneaux wanted that transaction to be widely known,” said Winter. “He gave every publicity to it.”