“No, sir.”
“And the outfit––was there any evidence it had been used lately?”
“No––everything was dust-covered, and even rusty, as if it had not even been touched in months, perhaps years. The whole thing might be merely a relic of Jimmy Brunell’s past performances, in the life he gave up long ago.”
Morrow spoke almost eagerly, as if momentarily off his guard, but Blaine shook his head.
“Rather too dangerous a relic to keep in one’s possession, Guy, simply as a souvenir––a reminder of things the man is trying to forget, to live down. You can depend on it: the outfit was there for some more practical purpose. You say Paddington has not appeared in the neighborhood, but another man has––a man Brunell’s daughter seems to dislike and fear?”
“Yes, sir. There’s one significant fact about him, too––his name. He’s Charley Pennold. It didn’t occur to me for some time after Miss Brunell let that slip, that the name is the same as that of the precious pair of old crooks over in Brooklyn, the ones Suraci and I traced Brunell by.”
“Charley Pennold!” Blaine repeated thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of him. He’s old Walter Pennold’s nephew. The boy was running straight the last I heard of him, but you never can tell. Guy, I’m going to take you off the Brunell trail for a while, and put you on this man Paddington. I’ll have Suraci look up Charley Pennold and get a line on him. In the meantime, leave your key to the map-making shop with me. I may want to have a look at that forgery outfit myself.”
“You’re going to take me off the Brunell trail!” Morrow’s astonishment and obvious distaste for the change of program confronting him was all-revealing. “But I’ll have to go back and make some sort of explanation for leaving so abruptly, won’t I? Will it pay to arouse their suspicions––that is, sir, unless you’ve got some special reason for doing so?”
Blaine’s slow smile was very kindly and sympathetic as he eyed the anxious young man before him.