“Who is he, sir?” inquired the elder of the pair, bending over the prostrate man, and taking up the smoky lamp in order to examine his features more carefully.
“His name is Lane—a costermonger, known as Lanky Lane. The man with you is one of his friends, and can tell you more about him than I can.”
“Is he dead?” queried the second constable, touching the thin, pallid face.
“Certainly,” I answered. “I’m a doctor, and have already made an examination. He’s been dead some time.”
My name and address was taken, together with that of my companion. When, however, Ambler told the officers his name, both were visibly impressed. The name of Jevons was well known to the police, who held him in something like awe as a smart criminal investigator.
“I know Inspector Barton at Leman Street—your station, I suppose?” he added.
“Yes, sir,” responded the first constable. “And begging your pardon, sir, I’m honoured to meet you. We all heard how you beat the C. I. Department in the Bowyer Square Mystery, and how you gave the whole information to Sergeant Payling without taking any of the credit to yourself. He got all the honour, sir, and your name didn’t appear at the Old Bailey.”
Jevons laughed. He was never fond of seeing his name in print. He made a study of the ways and methods of the criminal, but only for his own gratification. The police knew him well, but he hid his light under the proverbial bushel always.
“What is your own opinion of the affair, sir?” the officer continued, ready to take his opinion before that of the sergeant of the Criminal Investigation Department attached to his station.
“Well,” said Ambler, “it looks like sudden death, doesn’t it? Perhaps it’s poison.”