“Ah, yes. Many years ago I knew a fellow named Roselli, in Turin—not very intimately; we did a little deal in marble together on one occasion. What do you know about him?”
Smeaton shrugged his shoulders carelessly. “Not much. In our business we come across many little things that we have not set out to find, but which emerge from greater issues. However, I did not come here to talk about this foreigner, but in the hope that you might be able to help me with that letter.”
When Whyman spoke again all traces of his momentary embarrassment had passed.
“I am only too sorry that I cannot. I should say that envelope must have been stolen from my office.”
“Very likely,” said Smeaton quietly. Then he rose to go.
Whyman at once became effusively hospitable. “I wish you would dine and stay the night with me. I should be most delighted to have a good long chat with you, especially if you could tell me some of your experiences which are no longer secrets. To-morrow, perhaps, I could take you for a spin in the country in my car.”
Smeaton hesitated. Why did this man, whom he suspected of being a rogue under all this genial veneer, suddenly develop such a partiality for the society of an utter stranger? Did he want to pump him as to what he knew concerning Roselli, whom of course, he did not know was dead?
He decided he would stay. If it came to pumping, Smeaton flattered himself he would prove the better of the two at that particular game. He might even make Whyman betray himself in an unguarded moment.
They spent quite a pleasant time together. Smeaton was shown over the house and grounds. The dinner was good, the wines and cigars excellent. The detective entertained his host with reminiscences of work at “the Yard” that involved no indiscretion. They sat up chatting till past midnight. But the name of Roselli was not mentioned again on either side.
“Good-night, Mr Smeaton, good-night. I have enjoyed your company immensely. Breakfast at half-past nine—eh?”