"You'll probably find him in the Thames," I said, "if you find him anywhere. My only hope is that he managed to kill Da Costa too."
Gordon got up from his chair. His languid manner had slipped off him like a cloak, and his dark eyes glowed with a quick intelligence and energy that fully explained his remarkable achievements.
"I will do what I can," he said. "The police are sure to ask for a further remand to-morrow, and they'd better be allowed to have it. By the next hearing we shall know where we stand, and we can then decide whether to fight or to let the case be sent for trial. By the way, can you give me some addresses of friends in the Argentine or elsewhere who can establish your identity?"
I wrote him out the names of several of my more respectable acquaintances who knew about my journey to England, and he put the list away in his pocket.
"I will cable them this afternoon," he said. "Don't forget to send Logan round. I'll communicate with Miss Solano myself."
He went off, leaving me with the satisfactory feeling that, as far as professional assistance was concerned, I had certainly struck the right quarter. Indeed, the only thing that really worried me was the prospect of Mercia being dragged in to give evidence. I was determined that, whatever might happen to me, her true connection with the case should not be made public if I could prevent it. In France, of course, it wouldn't have mattered, for Frenchmen would have regarded her intention to assassinate Prado as the natural and laudable ambition which I myself considered it to be. But here in London—well, I could imagine what sort of an uproar such an admission would evoke from my smug fellow-countrymen. No, whatever happened, Mercia's real part in the affair must be discreetly cloaked.
I was curious to know what sort of a figure I was cutting in the Press. I realised, of course, that every sub-editor in Fleet Street would be straining himself in his efforts to do justice to such an opportunity, and it seemed a pity that I, of all people, should remain ignorant of the result. So when the constable brought me in my lunch, I asked him whether it was against the regulations to send out for some evening papers.
He looked a little doubtful. "I'll inquire about it," he said. "What papers do you want?"
"Oh, bring the lot," I replied spaciously. "It isn't every day that one's accused of murder."
Half an hour later he returned with a bundle of evening journals under his arm.