“You knew him in England,” remarked Tramu, seated at a table upon which was a telephone instrument, while I stood between the two agents of police who had arrested me. “Where did you first meet him?”
“At a railway station.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“I had a message to deliver—a letter from a dead friend.”
Tramu smiled incredulously, as did also the two other officials at his side.
“And this dead friend—who was he?” asked the renowned detective.
“A man whom I had met on a steamer between Naples and London. He was a stranger to me, but being taken ill on board, I tried to do what I could for him. He died in London soon after our arrival.”
“His name?”
“Melvill Arnold.”
Victor Tramu stroked his brown beard.