“Of course.” Mitchell reddened. “I don’t break confidences, Madam. But you have said too much not to say more. What are your reasons for claiming that Edward Rodgers is an adventurer?”
Mrs. Parsons did not reply at once and Mitchell studied her with covert interest. She was dressed in exquisite taste and the delicate rose-tint of her complexion had been applied with such consummate skill that even the uncompromising glare of a March morning betrayed no signs of make-up to the sharp eyes of her visitor. Mitchell had always been more or less susceptible to women’s wiles, and his stiff official manner had thawed perceptibly when she had welcomed him with a cordiality very gratifying to his amour propre.
“Some years ago,” Mrs. Parsons spoke in so low a tone that Mitchell was obliged to lean forward to catch what she said. “My husband, then a practicing attorney in San Francisco, had a client, Jacob Brown, a man of supposed wealth and standing in the community. Gradually, I do not know why, certain business transactions in which Brown was involved became questionable, but it was not until the Holt will case—”
“The Holt will case!” Inspector Mitchell drew back sharply. “Hah! Jake Brown—‘Gentleman Jake?’”
“Yes, just so.” She looked at him admiringly. “You have an excellent memory, Inspector.”
“Where crime is concerned,” he admitted, with a touch of pride. “Let me see, Gentleman Jake was one of the beneficiaries in Colonel Holt’s will at a time when his financial affairs were in bad shape—”
“In fact, Gentleman Jake was a ruined man—” she supplemented softly.
“Exactly.” Mitchell warmed to his subject. “And according to the will, Colonel Holt left him a hundred thousand dollars. Then along came a nephew who dug up another will and claimed that the one leaving the legacy to Gentleman Jake was a clever forgery.”
“And the nephew won his case through the expert testimony of Edward Rodgers, handwriting expert,” added Mrs. Parsons. “Gentleman Jake was sent to the penitentiary and—”