“To what, Madam?” as she came to a stammering halt.
“To learn certain facts in a person’s life.” She plucked nervously at her handkerchief as she waited for his answer.
“You will have to be more explicit, Madam,” he said gravely. “Whose past life do you wish investigated and why?”
Mrs. Parsons paused in indecision; then with an air of perfect candor addressed the impatient inspector.
“Of course you will respect my confidence,” she began. Mitchell nodded. “There is a certain man in Washington who has gained a welcome in the most exclusive homes,” she paused. “I believe him to be an adventurer.”
“Come, Mrs. Parsons, that is not being very explicit,” remonstrated Mitchell. “To whom are you alluding?”
“A man calling himself Edward Rodgers.”
Mitchell sat back and regarded her in unconcealed surprise.
“Edward Rodgers,” he echoed. “You surely do not mean Edward Rodgers, the handwriting expert?”
“I do.” His profound astonishment was a sap to her vanity, and she could not restrain a smile. It vanished suddenly as a thought recurred to her. “You have promised, Inspector, not to repeat what I tell you. I depend upon you to keep your word.”