“How long had T. Burton Potter been living in that house where the fire was?” he asked, at last.
“Only a few days, I understand. That’s what the man who rents the house tells me. He is a truckman, and his name is said to be Billings. They call him Bonesy Billings, but I should think the ‘Bonesy’ is only a nickname. At all events, that is the only first name I heard for him. He calls his roomer Howard Milmarsh. But that only shows how much alike Potter and this Milmarsh must be; when nobody can tell which is which. You haven’t heard anything of the real Milmarsh, have you?”
“I think I have,” was Nick’s curt reply.
He had to admit to himself that Andrew Lampton and Louden Powers were playing a cunning game. They had taken instant advantage of the sickness of the man hurt at the fire to declare that he was T. Burton Potter, and not Howard Milmarsh. And the worst of it was that it could not be disproved unless the poor fellow whose memory was gone could be brought to his senses.
“Where is Louden Powers?”
This question came suddenly, but it did not disturb Lampton. He puffed contentedly at the good cigar between his lips, and answered briefly:
“I don’t know.”
“You saw him last night?”
“Yes. But that is the last time I saw him. Louden said he had a little business to attend to, which would keep him out of New York for a few days. Then he hopped on a street car and was gone. Mighty slick citizen, Louden!”
“What is to prevent my putting you in the Tombs while I look into this matter?” suddenly demanded Nick.