The “old man” nodded.
“Do anything except lecture,” he said, “and, for the Lord’s sake, don’t start a private agency! In America detective agencies do wonderful things—in England their work is restricted to thinking up evidence for divorces. A man asked me only today if I could recommend—”
He stopped suddenly at the foot of the stairs and viewed Dick with a new interest.
“By Jove! I wonder—! Do you know Havelock, the lawyer?”
Dick shook his head.
“He’s a pretty good man. His office is somewhere in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. You’ll find its exact position in the telephone directory. I met him at lunch and he asked me—”
He paused, examining the younger man with a speculative eye.
“You’re the very man—it is curious I did not think of you. He asked me if I could find him a reliable private detective, and I told him that such things did not exist outside the pages of fiction.”
“It doesn’t exist as far as I’m concerned,” smiled Dick. “The last thing in the world I want to do is start a detective agency.”
“And you’re right, my boy,” said the commissioner. “I could never respect you if you did. As a matter of fact, you’re the very man for the job,” he went on, a little inconsistently. “Will you go along and see Havelock, and tell him I sent you? I’d like you to help him if you could. Although he isn’t a friend of mine, I know him and he’s a very pleasant fellow.”
“What is the job?” asked the young man, by no means enthralled at the prospect.
“I don’t know,” was the reply. “It may be one that you couldn’t undertake. But I’d like you to see him—I half promised him that I would recommend somebody. I have an idea that it is in connection with a client of his who is giving him a little trouble. You would greatly oblige me, Martin, if you saw this gentleman.”
The last thing in the world Dick Martin had in mind was the transference of his detective activities from Scotland Yard to the sphere of private agencies; but he had been something of a protégé of the third commissioner, and there was no reason in the world why he should not see the lawyer. He said as much.
“Good,” said the commissioner. “I’ll phone him this afternoon and tell him you’ll come along and see him. You may be able to help him.”
“I hope so, sir,” said Dick mendaciously.
II
He pursued his leisurely way to the Bellingham Library, one of the institutions of London that is known only to a select few. No novel or volume of sparkling reminiscence has a place upon the shelves of this institution, founded a hundred years ago to provide scientists and littérateurs with an opportunity of consulting volumes which were unprocurable save at the British Museum. On the four floors which constituted the building, fat volumes of German philosophy, learned and, to the layman, unintelligible books on scientific phenomena, obscure treatises on almost every kind of uninteresting subject, stood shoulder to shoulder upon their sedate shelves.
John Bellingham, who in the eighteenth century had founded this exchange of learning, had provided in the trust deeds that “two intelligent females, preferably in indigent circumstances,” should form part of the staff, and it was to one of these that Dick was conducted.
In a small, high-ceilinged room, redolent of old leather, a girl sat at a table, engaged in filing index cards.
“I am from Scotland Yard,” Dick introduced himself. “I understand that some of your books have been stolen?”
He was looking at the packed shelves as he spoke, for he was not interested in females, intelligent or stupid, indigent or wealthy. The only thing he noticed about her was that she wore black and that her hair was a golden-brown and was brushed into a fringe over her forehead. In a vague way he supposed that most girls had hair of golden-brown, and he had a dim idea that fringes were popular among working-class ladies.
“Yes,” she said quietly, “a book was stolen from this room whilst I was at luncheon. It was not very valuable—a German volume written by Haeckel called Generelle Morphologie.”
She opened a drawer and took out an index card and laid it before him, and he read the words without being greatly enlightened.
“Who was here in your absence?” he asked.
“My assistant, a girl named Helder.”
“Did any of your subscribers come into this room during that time?”
“Several,” she replied. “I have their names, but most of them are above suspicion. The only visitor we had who is not a subscriber of the library was a gentleman named Stalletti, an Italian doctor, who called to make inquiries as to subscription.”
“He gave his name?” asked Dick.
“No,” said the girl to his surprise; “but Miss Helder recognized him; she had seen his portrait somewhere. I should have thought you would have remembered his name.”
“Why on earth should I remember his name, my good girl?” asked Dick a little irritably.
“Why on earth shouldn’t you, my good man?” she demanded coolly, and at that moment Dick Martin was aware of her, in the sense that she emerged from the background against which his life moved and became a personality.
Her eyes were grey and set wide apart; her nose straight and small; the mouth was a little wide—and she certainly had golden-brown hair.
“I beg your pardon!” he laughed. “As a matter of fact”—he had a trick of confidence which could be very deceptive—“I’m not at all interested in this infernal robbery. I’m leaving the police force tomorrow.”
“There will be great joy amongst the criminal classes,” she said politely, and when he saw the light of laughter in her eyes, his heart went out to her.
“You have a sense of humour,” he smiled.
“You mean by that, that I’ve a sense of your humour,” she answered quickly. “I have, or I should very much object to being called ‘my good girl’ even by an officer of
