“You have?” he exclaimed, starting. “What causes you to anticipate that?”
“The circumstances were so remarkable,” I replied, and continuing, I explained the tragic affair just as I have written it here.
“You don’t suspect Dicky Dawson, I suppose?” the old fellow asked anxiously.
“Why? Had he any motive for getting rid of our friend?”
“Ah! I don’t know. Dicky is a very funny customer. He always held Blair beneath his thumb. They were a truly remarkable pair; the one blossoming forth into a millionaire, and the other living strictly in secret somewhere abroad—in Italy, I think.”
“Dawson must have had some very strong motive for remaining so quiet,” I observed.
“Because he was compelled,” answered Hales, with a mysterious shake of the head. “There were reasons why he shouldn’t show his face. Myself, I wonder why he has dared to do so now.”
“What!” I cried eagerly, “is he wanted by the police or something?”
“Well,” answered the old man, after some hesitation, “I don’t think he’d welcome a visit from any of those inquisitive gentlemen from Scotland Yard. Only remember I make no charges, none at all. If, however, he attempts any sharp practice, you may just casually mention that Harry Hales is still alive, and is thinking of coming up to London to pay him a morning call. Just watch what effect those words will have upon him,” and the old man chuckled to himself, adding, “Ah! Mr Dicky-bird Dawson, you’ve got to reckon with me yet, I fancy.”
“Then you’ll assist us?” I cried in eagerness. “You can save Mabel Blair if you will?”