About twenty minutes elapsed before Patterson rejoined me, but expressing a fear that we might be overheard there, we went forth together and strolled along High Street, until, coming to a quiet turning which, I think, led past the workhouse, we strolled along it, and there he commenced his explanation.
“The fact is,” he said in a nervous, hushed voice, “there’s been a most extraordinary occurrence here to-night. The mystery is the strangest in all my experience, and I’ve made inquiries into one or two in my time, as you know.”
“Tell me all about it,” I said, my curiosity whetted.
“I wish I could, my dear fellow,” he answered.
“I mean, tell me all the known facts.”
“Nothing is known—save the discovery,” he replied. “As soon as it became known I wired to you. When the papers get hold of it, it will make the greatest sensation ever known in London.”
“Well, that’s saying a good deal,” I remarked. “Who made the discovery?”
“I did,” he answered, adding quickly, “but don’t mention me, or the superintendent may suspect me of giving you information. He already has a suspicion that I’m a bit too friendly with you gentlemen of the press. A contravention of the Commissioner’s orders against giving information to the papers might get me carpeted up at the Yard, you know.”
“And the discovery?” I asked impatiently. “What’s its nature?”
“Most astounding,” he replied, with a bewildered look. “I’m a police officer, Urwin,” he added hoarsely, “and I’m not often unnerved. But to-night, by Jove! I’m upset—altogether upset. The whole affair is so devilish uncanny and unnatural.”