“Drawn into crooked paths by accident perhaps,” he commented, “and makes loyalty to her pals her first principle or, equally probable, is too well paid by the other side to consider it worth while treating with us.”
He rose and paced the room, a sign with him of unusual mental activity. “Well, now, it is needless to say, I am very grievously disappointed, I looked for some good results, and the worst of it is, we have given ourselves away. In another twenty-four hours our friend the baronet and Mrs. Morrice will know of your visit, and will be on their guard.”
Sellars agreed. “That is inevitable. Unless she happened to speak the truth when she said that she knew nothing of Mrs. Morrice and did not know whether she was dead or alive.”
“That’s a lie like the other about Archie Brookes,” replied the detective grimly. “I don’t think I’ve told you before, but I have had Mrs. Morrice under observation by one of my best men for a little time. During that period she has paid two visits to the Kew flat. Alma Buckley is a useful friend in many ways, although she is not an official one and doesn’t show up at Deanery Street—and no doubt, she gets well paid for her services. It won’t be very long now before we shall have to open the eyes of the master of the house.”
He was pacing up and down the room with very vigorous strides now, his physical energy reflecting his mental activity. In that keen and resourceful brain he was doubtless planning his campaign, determining the best method of exploding his bombshell in Deanery Street.
He paused at last in his restless pacing and turned to his lieutenant, who knew the man too well to put any direct questions.
“Well, Sellars, we have drawn a blank with Alma Buckley, through no fault of yours. You couldn’t have done more than you have. We shall have to precipitate matters, and blow up Clayton-Brookes and that young impostor, whom the world takes for his nephew, in the process.”
Sellars would have dearly liked to have an actual inkling of what his astute leader was planning, but he knew it was useless asking. Lane never revealed his coups beforehand. When they were accomplished, he was as frank as he had previously been reticent, and would explain with perfect candour the processes by which he had engineered them.
“Well, good-bye, Lane. Sorry the result wasn’t satisfactory. Better luck next time. Can I get on to any other portion of the job?”
The detective thought not, at the moment; what was left he was going to take into his own hands. But he praised his able young lieutenant very highly for the work he had done down at Brinkstone, the foundation on which the superstructure of the subsequent investigations had been built.