“Only his certainty of inheriting the millions, in case Miss Powell doesn’t marry by the stated date. Fine scheme, to steal the bridegroom,—thus lessening by a large percentage the chances of her immediate wedding.”
“Yes, the motive is all right,” Whiting agreed, “but you don’t know Joe! Why, he’s the whitest young chap—”
“On the surface; why not? But, do you suppose a criminal goes about labelled? Count every man guilty until he’s proved innocent, is a better plan to work on than the reverse principle. If Joe Allison is innocent it will be far easier for him to prove it, than for me to prove it if he’s guilty.”
Whiting pondered over this, then he said,
“Well, I admit, you’re the most novel detective I’ve ever run up against! Have you usually succeeded in your quests?”
“That’s a leading question.” Coley Coe looked a little surprised at it, as if he thought it a breach of etiquette.
Whiting flushed and his thin lips shut together sharply, as they did when he was a bit embarrassed.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, simply. “That did sound rude, but honestly, I didn’t mean it so. It was the unconsidered expression of my interest in your methods,—which, if I may say it, are refreshingly unusual.”
Coe accepted the honourable apology, and met Whiting half-way.
“My methods are unusual, and I’m properly ashamed of them.” His eyes smiled. “But they do work,—and I have had successes,—oh, lots of ’em!” he wound up, boyishly.