"I quite see," said Hugh, as he took the proffered card. "If I can prove that they are meeting on the sly it will strengthen my hands, eh?"
"That is the idea. Of course, at the moment, I don't know which you are going to tackle first, the husband or the wife."
"I can't say myself, my mind is in such a whirl. But I feel I must avenge poor Jack Pomfret's death."
Mr. Bryant rose. "You will excuse me, Major Murchison, but I have a very busy day. Make use of Parkinson; he is as keen as mustard. And if it comes to this, that you want me for purposes of identification, I am at your disposal, in Eaton Place or elsewhere."
Murchison left, but not before he had pressed a substantial cheque into Bryant's somewhat reluctant hand.
The next day he interviewed Parkinson, a lean, ascetic-looking man of the true sleuth-hound breed. He took his instructions.
"Give me a fortnight, if you please, sir; a week is hardly long enough. I'll warrant, from what our friend Bryant has hinted to me, I will have something to report."
And he had. At the end of the fortnight he appeared. He produced a small pocket-book.
"I'm glad you didn't stipulate for only a week, sir; it was rather a blank one—only one meeting. I expect the lady couldn't get away comfortably. But the week after I was rewarded. Three meetings in that second week."
"Ah! where do they meet?"