"Not the slightest."
Karl paused. "You are sure of that?"
Tatton took a look at Sir Karl in the evening dusk, as if not able to understand him. "He is about the height of Salter, and in complexion is somewhat, similar, if you can call that a resemblance," said he. "There is no other."
Karl spoke not for a few moments: the way before him was darkening. "You knew Salter's person well, I conclude?" he said presently.
"As well as I know my own brother's."
Another pause; and then Karl laid his hand upon the officer's arm, bespeaking his best attention.
"I am sorry for all this," he said; "I am vexed to have been the cause of so much trouble. Your mission here may terminate as soon as you will, Mr. Tatton, for it is Smith that I was suspecting of being Salter!"
"No!" cried Tatton in surprised disbelief.
"On my solemn word, I assert it. I suspected my agent, Smith, to be Salter."
"Why, Sir Karl, I can hardly understand that. You surely could not suppose it to be within the bounds of probability that Philip Salter, the fugitive criminal, would go about in the light of day in England as your agent goes--no matter how secluded the spot might be! And five hundred pounds on his head!"