"But—but—" he stared for a moment at the card without speaking.
"Well, this beats everything," he exclaimed. "What in God's name can
Bruce Latimer have to do with your crowd?"
"That," I remarked, "is exactly what I want to find out."
"Find out!" repeated Tommy. "We'll find out right enough. Do you think he guessed who it was that sent the note?"
"Most likely he did," I said. "I was the nearest person, but in any case he only saw my back. You can't recognize a man from his back."
Tommy took two or three steps up and down the studio. "You mustn't go and see him," he said at last—"that's quite certain. You can't afford to mix yourself up in a business of this sort."
"No," I said reluctantly, "but all the same I should very much like to know what's at the bottom of it."
"Suppose I take it on, then?" suggested Tommy.
"What could you say?" I asked.
"I should tell him that it was a friend of mine—an artist who was going abroad the next day—who had seen it happen, and that he'd given me the card and asked me to explain. It's just possible Latimer would take me into his confidence. He would either have to do that or else pretend that the whole thing was a joke."
"I'm quite sure there was no joke about it," I said. "Whether the chap with the scar belongs to McMurtrie's crowd or not, I'm as certain as I am that I'm standing here that he drugged that wine. He may not have meant to murder Latimer, but it looks uncommon fishy."