“I should say they were hardly worth considering.” He spoke deliberately, turning from the window to resume his place by the table. The fight had begun; they had crossed blades at last.
“There is a very good detective called Chance and a better one called Luck.”
“You have secured their services?”
“I am not certain yet. Can you help me?”
He made the appeal with calculated directness, knowing his man and his aversion to evasion, but if he expected him to hesitate he was disappointed.
“No, I can do nothing. I tried for five years to bring you to some sense of your responsibility in this matter. You were not frank with me then, it seems. I can do nothing now.”
“And have lost all interest in it, I suppose?”
“No. It is your interest that rises and falls with the occasion, but I decline to have anything to do with it. If—as I do not believe—Elizabeth is still alive she and your son have done without your help for twenty years and can do without it still.”
“They have doubtless plenty of friends.”
“Let us hope so. What was the name of the Liverpool woman?” 215