Wimp looked Denzil straight in the eyes, and said, “You mean, of course, to accuse Mortlake of the murder of Mr. Constant?”

“N-n-no, not at all,” stammered Denzil, “only you know what Mr. Grodman wrote to the Pell Mell.  The more we know about Mr. Constant’s life the more we shall know about the manner of his death.  I thought my information would be valuable to you, and I brought it.”

“And why didn’t you take it to Mr. Grodman?”

“Because I thought it wouldn’t be valuable to me.”

“You wrote Criminals I have Caught?”

“How—­how do you know that?” Wimp was startling him to-day with a vengeance.

“Your style, my dear Mr. Cantercot.  The unique, noble style.”

“Yes, I was afraid it would betray me,” said Denzil.  “And since you know, I may tell you that Grodman’s a mean curmudgeon.  What does he want with all that money and those houses—­a man with no sense of the Beautiful?  He’d have taken my information, and given me more kicks than ha’pence for it, so to speak.”

“Yes, he is a shrewd man after all.  I don’t see anything valuable in your evidence against Mortlake.”

“No!” said Denzil in a disappointed tone, and fearing he was going to be robbed.  “Not when Mortlake was already jealous of Mr. Constant, who was a sort of rival organiser, unpaid!  A kind of blackleg doing the work cheaper—­nay, for nothing.”

“Did Mortlake tell you he was jealous?” said Wimp, a shade of sarcastic contempt piercing through his tones.

“Oh, yes!  He said to me, ’That man will work mischief.  I don’t like your kid-glove philanthropists meddling in matters they don’t understand.’”

“Those were his very words?”

“His ipsissima verba.”

“Very well.  I have your address in my files.  Here is a sovereign for you.”

“Only one sovereign!  It’s not the least use to me.”

“Very well.  It’s of great use to me.  I have a wife to keep.”

“I haven’t,” said Denzil, with a sickly smile, “so perhaps I can manage on it after all.”  He took his hat and the sovereign.

Outside the door he met a rather pretty servant just bringing in some tea to her master.  He nearly upset her tray at sight of her.  She seemed more amused at the rencontre than he.

“Good afternoon, dear,” she said coquettishly.  “You might let me have that sovereign.  I do so want a new Sunday bonnet.”

Denzil gave her the sovereign, and slammed the hall-door viciously when he got to the bottom of the stairs.  He seemed to be walking arm-in-arm with the long arm of coincidence.  Wimp did not hear the duologue.  He was already busy on his evening’s report to headquarters.  The next day Denzil had a body-guard wherever he went.  It might have gratified his vanity had he known it.  But to-night he was yet unattended, so no one noted that he went to 46 Glover Street, after the early Crowl supper.  He could not help going.  He wanted to get another sovereign.  He also itched to taunt Grodman.  Not succeeding in the former object, he felt the road open for the second.