The detective glanced at Lord Hartledon with his deep eyes, but he did not know him, and took out a note-book, on which some words and figures were dotted down, hieroglyphics to any one’s eyes but his own.  Squaring his elbows on the table, he begun abruptly; and appeared to have a habit of cutting short his words and sentences.

“Haven’t succeeded yet as could wish, Mr. Carr; at least not altogether:  have had to be longer over it, too, than thought for.  George Gordon:  Scotch birth, so far as can learn; left an orphan; lived mostly in London.  Served time to medical practitioner, locality Paddington.  Idle, visionary, loose in conduct, good-natured, fond of roving.  Surgeon wouldn’t keep him as assistant; might have done it, he says, had G.G. been of settled disposition:  saw him in drink three times.  Next turns up in Scotland, assistant to a doctor there; name Mair, locality Kirkcudbrightshire.  Remained less than a year; left, saying was going to Australia.  So far,” broke off the speaker, raising his eyes to Mr. Carr’s, “particulars tally with the information supplied by you.”

“Just so.”

“Then my further work began,” continued Mr. Green.  “Afraid what I’ve got together won’t be satisfactory; differ from you in opinion, at any rate.  G.G. went to Australia; no doubt of that; friend of his got a letter or two from him while there:  last one enclosed two ten-pound notes, borrowed by G.G. before he went out.  Last letter said been up to the diggings; very successful; coming home with his money, mentioned ship he meant to sail in.  Hadn’t been in Australia twelve months.”

“Who was the friend?” asked Mr. Carr.

“Respectable man; gentleman; former fellow-pupil with Gordon in London; in good practice for himself now; locality Kensington.  After last letter, friend perpetually looking out for G.G.  G.G. did not make his appearance; conclusion friend draws is he did not come back.  Feels sure Gordon, whether rich or poor, in ill-report or good-report, would have come direct to him.”

“I happen to know that he did come back,” said Mr. Carr.

“Don’t think it,” was the unceremonious rejoinder.

“I know it positively.  And that he was in London.”

The detective looked over his notes, as if completely ignoring Mr. Carr’s words.

“You heard, gentlemen, of that mutiny on board the ship Morning Star, some three years ago?  Made a noise at the time.”

“Well?”

“Ringleader was this same man, George Gordon.”

“No!” exclaimed Mr. Carr.

“No reasonable doubt about it.  Friend of his feels none:  can’t understand how G.G. could have turned suddenly cruel; never was that.  Pooh! when men have been leading lawless lives in the bush, perhaps taken regularly to drinking—­which G.G. was inclined to before—­they’re ready for any crime under the sun.”

“But how do you connect Gordon with the ringleader of that diabolical mutiny?”