They were seated once more in the taxicab, on their way westward.  Francis for the first time was conscious of an utterly new sensation with regard to his companion.  He watched him through half-closed eyes—­an insignificant-looking little man whose clothes, though neat, were ill-chosen, and whose tie was an offense.  There was nothing in the face to denote unusual intelligence, but the eyes were small and cunning and the mouth dogged.  Francis looked away out of the window.  A sudden flash of realisation had come to him, a wave of unreasoning but positive dislike.

“When do you hope to bring your case to an end?” he asked.

The man smiled once more, and the very smile irritated his companion.

“Within the course of the next few days, sir,” he replied.

“And the charge?”

The detective turned around.

“Mr. Ledsam,” he said, “we have been old friends, if you will allow me to use the word, ever since I was promoted to my present position in the Force.  You have trusted me with a good many cases, and I acknowledge myself your debtor, but in the matter of Sir Timothy Brast, you will forgive my saying with all respect, sir, that our ways seem to lie a little apart.”

“Will you tell me why you have arrived at that conclusion?” Francis asked.  “It was I who first incited you to set a watch upon Sir Timothy.  It was to you I first mentioned certain suspicions I myself had with regard to him.  I treated you with every confidence.  Why do you now withhold yours from me?”

“It is quite true, Mr. Ledsam,” Shopland admitted, “that it was you who first pointed out Sir Timothy as an interesting study for my profession, but that was a matter of months ago.  If you will forgive my saying so, your relations with Sir Timothy have altered since then.  You have been his guest at The Sanctuary, and there is a rumour, sir—­you will pardon me if I seem to be taking a liberty—­that you are engaged to be married to his daughter, Oliver Hilditch’s widow.”

“You seem to be tolerably well informed as to my affairs, Shopland,” Francis remarked.

“Only so far as regards your associations with Sir Timothy,” was the deprecating reply.  “If you will excuse me, sir, this is where I should like to descend.”

“You have no message for Mr. Wilmore, then?” Francis asked.

“Nothing definite, sir, but you can assure him of this.  His brother is not likely to come to any particular harm.  I have no absolute information to offer, but it is my impression that Mr. Reginald Wilmore will be home before a week is past.  Good afternoon, sir.”

Shopland stepped out of the taxicab and, raising his hat, walked quickly away.  Francis directed the man to drive to Clarges Street.  As they drove off, he was conscious of a folded piece of paper in the corner where his late companion had been seated.  He picked it up, opened it, realised that it was a letter from a firm of lawyers, addressed to Shopland, and deliberately read it through.  It was dated from a small town not far from Hatch End: