“Good evening, Mr. Archie; hardly expected you’d pop in. Sir George left early this morning for the country, didn’t say where he was going. A friend of mine, Mr. Cox, very fond of pictures, been in the line himself at one time, a dealer. I told him Sir George had a few very fine ones, thought he might like to have a peep at ’em. Hope you won’t think I’ve taken too great a liberty, sir.”
It was a desperate invention on the part of Simmons, this about the picture-dealing, not a very happy one, the detective thought. But the poor wretch was in too confused a state to think, and said the first thing that suggested itself to him. Archie Brookes looked from one to the other and he did not appear to be quite satisfied. Lane bore himself very well, and his conscience did not prick him in the least. He assumed the stolid demeanour of a man who has nothing to fear, an attitude to which his rather grave countenance lent strong support. If only this white-livered fellow could conceal his tremors, Archie Brookes would suspect nothing; but this was just what the unfortunate valet found it so difficult to do.
The young man favoured Lane with a very prolonged stare which the detective bore without flinching. He had made up his mind as to his course of action if things got troublesome, if young Mr. Brookes adopted a threatening attitude. He would disclaim the valet’s ingenious fiction about the picture-dealing, boldly proclaim who he was, admit he had made use of Simmons to learn what he could about his master, and tell the young gentleman himself he knew him for the impostor he was.
Still, he did not wish to push matters to extremes, to take a step which would put the two men on their guard. He would only do all this as a very last resource. Meanwhile, he would trust to diplomacy to get out of the awkward situation in which he had been placed by the valet’s extreme cowardice.
“So you are in the picture line, are you?” said Brookes at length; and Lane thought there was a slight sneer on the good-looking, rather effeminate face, which the detective did not allow himself to be ruffled by.
“Was,” answered the other, backing up the valet’s mendacious statement so far. “Been out of it for many years, but still retain my old fondness for good stuff.” He spoke in his most stolid manner, assuming the rôle of a small tradesman quite successfully.
“And what might be your line now, pray?” The tone was just a trifle insolent. There was no doubt the young man could be a bit of a bully when he liked, and Lane was quite sure that the undeniably gentlemanly appearance was only veneer. Sellars had told him that he was considered rather a bounder.
Lane had told one lie, in order to bolster up things; it would not hurt him very much to tell another.
“I’m in the furniture business now,” he exclaimed briefly.
Young Brookes looked hard from one man to the other. He did not appear quite satisfied; on the other hand, he did not seem quite certain of the grounds on which he could express his suspicions.