“No, Mr. Thoyne burnt that when he had read it.”
That, of course, was Kitty Clevedon’s telegram warning Thoyne of my threatened visit.
“It was lucky Tulmin went to London—what should you have done if he hadn’t?” I asked, with some little curiosity.
“Oh, I should have found a way,” Stillman replied. “Perhaps an opportunity of boarding the yacht would have presented itself, or I might have learnt its destination and met it there. I should have found Tulmin some way. But that telegram eased matters considerably. I am much obliged to whoever sent it.”
In all his confidences Thoyne had never told me why he took Tulmin away, nor had he given me any indication that he knew where he was.
“As to Tulmin,” Stillman went on, “I had rather a lot of trouble with him. He wasn’t exactly an easy subject. But I got there in time. He is too fond of his whisky to keep many secrets. And I have spent a lot of money in whisky. At to-day’s prices, you know, whisky does cost money. But I had to drag it out of him almost a word at a time and piece it together as best I could. But I think I have it straight now.”
The story was very simple. As Stillman had said, the three men had all hailed from America where Clevedon, known then as Calcott had been an object of much attention from the police. Tulmin himself was a “crook,” though of rather smaller dimensions than the other, and they had occasionally worked together. Then Calcott disappeared and it was given out that he was dead.
It was some time after Calcott’s ending that Tulmin, finding the police in America inconveniently eager to make his acquaintance, crossed over to England, which offered at once a refuge and a fresh field for his operations. It was in London that he met Sir Philip Clevedon as the latter was going from a taxi towards the dignified entrance to his club. They faced each other at the foot of the stone steps.
“Calcott!” Tulmin cried, with a welcoming grin.
“I beg your pardon,” Sir Philip replied, with the icy composure that characterised him.