During his theatrical experiences he had come across scores of such men, dapper little fellows, wizened of face yet curiously youthful in manner; but they, each and all, were labeled “low comedian.” Certainly, a rare intelligence gleamed from this man’s eyes, but that is an attribute not often lacking in humorists who command high salaries because of their facility in laughter-making. This man, too, had the wide, thin-lipped, mobile mouth of the actor. His ivory-white, wrinkled forehead and cheeks, the bluish tint on jaws and chin, his voice, his perky air, the very tilt of his straw hat, were eloquent of the footlights. Even his opening words, bizarre and cheerfully impertinent, smacked of “comic relief.”
“I figure prominently in this particular ‘piece,’” snapped Grant. “May I ask your name, sir?”
“A wise precaution with suspicious characters,” rejoined the other, smiling. Grant was suddenly reminded of a Japanese grinning at a joke, but he bent over a card which the stranger had whisked out of a waistcoat pocket. He read:
Mr. Charles F. Furneaux,
Criminal Investigation Department,
New Scotland Yard, S.W.
He could not control himself. He gazed at Mr. Charles F. Furneaux with a surprise that was not altogether flattering.
“Did the Commissioner of Police send you in response to my telegram?” he said.
“That is what lawyers call a leading question,” came the prompt retort. “And I hate lawyers. They darken understanding, and set honest men at loggerheads.”
“But it happens to be very much to the point at this moment.”