“Ending your task by stringing Ooma, in imagination. I allow you full credit for your sensational development—always excepting this, that I sent you to Middle Street. Why did he kill Sir Alan? How does his Japanese nationality elucidate an utterly useless and purposeless murder?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Brett.”
“Unless I am much mistaken, you will learn to-night. Holden is nearly due.”
The barrister resumed his stalk round the room. In another minute he stopped to glance at his watch.
“Half-past seven,” he murmured. “Just time to get a message through to Whitby, and perhaps a reply.”
He wrote a telegram to Hume: “Where is Fergusson? I want to see him.”
“What has Fergusson got to do with the business?” asked the detective.
“Probably nothing. But he is the oldest available repository of the family secrets. His master has told him to be explicit with me. By questioning him, I may solve the riddle presented by Mr. Ooma. Does the name suggest nothing to you, Winter?”
“It has a Japanese ring about it.”
“Nothing Scotch? Isn’t it like Hume, for instance?”