The detective smiled in a superior way.
“I am no longer particularly interested in Mr. Reginald Wilmore,” he declared. “I have come to the conclusion that his disappearance is not a serious affair.”
“It’s serious enough for his relatives,” Francis objected.
“Not if they understood the situation,” the detective rejoined. “Assure them from me that nothing of consequence has happened to that young man. I have made enquiries at the gymnasium in Holborn, and in other directions. I am convinced that his absence from home is voluntary, and that there is no cause for alarm as to his welfare.”
“Then the sooner you make your way down to Kensington and tell his mother so, the better,” Francis said, a little severely. “Don’t forget that I put you on to this.”
“Quite right, sir,” the detective acquiesced, “and I am grateful to you. The fact of it is that in making my preliminary investigations with regard to the disappearance of Mr. Wilmore, I have stumbled upon a bigger thing. Before many weeks are past, I hope to be able to unearth one of the greatest scandals of modern times.”
“The devil!” Francis muttered.
He looked thoughtfully, almost anxiously at his companion. Shopland’s face reflected to the full his usual confidence. He had the air of a man buoyant with hope and with stifled self-satisfaction.
“I am engaged,” he continued, “upon a study of the methods and habits of one whom I believe to be a great criminal. I think that when I place my prisoner in the bar, Wainwright and these other great artists in crime will fade from the memory.”
“Is Sir Timothy Brast your man?” Francis asked quietly.
His companion frowned portentously.
“No names,” he begged.
“Considering that it was I who first put you on to him,” Francis expostulated, “I don’t think you need be so sparing of your confidence.”
“Mr. Ledsam,” the detective assured him, “I shall tell you everything that is possible. At the same time, I will be frank with you. You are right when you say that it was you who first directed my attention towards Sir Timothy Brast. Since that time, however, your own relations with him, to an onlooker, have become a little puzzling.”
“I see,” Francis murmured. “You’ve been spying on me?”
Shopland shook his head in deprecating fashion.
“A study of Sir Timothy during the last month,” he said, “has brought you many a time into the focus.”
“Where are we going to now?” Francis asked, a little abruptly.
“Just a side show, sir. It’s one of those outside things I have come across which give light and shade to the whole affair. We get out here, if you please.”
The two men stepped on to the pavement. They were in a street a little north of Wardour Street, where the shops for the most part were of a miscellaneous variety. Exactly in front of them, the space behind a large plate-glass window had been transformed into a sort of show-place for dogs. There were twenty or thirty of them there, of all breeds and varieties.