"My name. What is yours?"
"Murray Wigan," I answered, and the next instant was wondering why I had told him.
"Ah, I do not fancy we have met before, Detective Wigan. Perhaps we may help each other."
"You knew Mr. Ratcliffe?" I asked.
"No, but I have heard of him."
"I am afraid that——"
He laid two fingers of a lean hand on my arm.
"You had better. It will be wise."
A sharp retort came to my tongue, but remained unspoken. I can hardly explain why, because in an ordinary way his manner would only have increased my resentment and obstinacy.
I was young, only just over thirty, but success had brought me some fame and unlimited self-confidence. I was an enthusiast, and have been spoken of as a born detective, but the line of life I had chosen had sadly disappointed my father. He had given me an excellent education, and had looked forward to his son making a name for himself, but certainly not as a mere policeman, which was his way of putting it.