Peter began to tell himself that he was treating the man badly. He had nothing to gain beyond a little money for his services, and so far he had behaved well and with tact. He was obviously disinterested, although perhaps the bill for pursuing his investigations might be fairly high.
'I have reason to believe that the identity of the man can be proved,' said Purvis; 'but I am not going to risk finding a mare's nest, as I have told you.'
'I am not much help to you,' said Peter. 'I have never set eyes oh my brother since I was two years old.'
'This is his photograph,' said Purvis, producing a coloured photograph from his pocket.
Peter took it into his hands and looked long at it. It represented a little boy with fair curls seated in a photographer's arm-chair.
'Can you tell me if it resembles any of your family?' said Purvis.
'Well, 'pon my word I don't know,' said Peter. 'The photograph is a small one, you see, and evidently not a very good one, and to my mind all children of that age look exactly alike. He looks a good little chap,' he finished, with a touch of kindness in his voice. If his brother turned out to be a good fellow reparation would be made easier; and, heavens! how badly the man had been treated.
'The chief danger,' said Purvis, 'lies in the fact that even a strong chain of evidence is not likely to be accepted by those who would benefit by Edward Ogilvie's death.'
'I suppose one would play a fair game,' said Peter shortly. 'I should like to know where you have heard of the man?'
'I may tell you that much,' said Purvis. 'I heard of him at Rosario.'