“A mill town I believe?”
“Many of the mills are owned by my friend Jerome Dangerfield who used to purchase my dyes. We are friends of thirty years. He was the owner of the celebrated Mount Aubyn ruby. It was stolen from him, knocked out of his very hands. A most mysterious case. You have heard of it?”
“I saw that ten thousand dollars was offered for the return of the stone and capture of the thief.”
“I made my little list of those to whom Dangerfield had talked during his stay at Sunset Park. Your name was there, Mr. Trent.”
“If you are thinking of writing it up,” Trent said kindly, “I must advise you that editors of the better sort rather frown on coincidence. Coincidence in fiction is a shabby old gentleman to-day with fewer friends every year. What next?”
“Nothing, now,” Kaufmann admitted readily. “Since then I have investigated you. I find you write no more; that you live well; that while your money supposedly comes from Australia you never present an Australian draft at your bank. Now, my dear Mr. Trent, I may misjudge you. Possibly I do. But in the interests of my friends the Baron and Baroness, to say nothing of my customer Jerome Dangerfield, I may be permitted to investigate any man whose way of living seems suspicious. I ought perhaps to put the matter into the hands of the police.”
“Have you?” Trent demanded sharply.
“Not yet. It may be that I shall when I leave here. You may be thinking what a fool I am to come here and tell you these startling things when you are so much younger and stronger than I. I should answer, if you asked me, that I have a permit to carry a revolver and that I have availed myself of it.”
Blandly he showed the other a .38 automatic Bayard pistol.
“You may be misjudged,” he said cordially. “If so I offer you the apology of a Swiss gentleman. But consider my position. Suppose we abide by the decision of the police.” He looked keenly at Anthony Trent, “Are you willing to leave it to them? Shall I call up Spring 3100?”