There was a haze and a babble of talk. Poltavo crossed with quick steps to the lawyer, and for a moment they were engaged in quick conversation; then suddenly the adventurer turned and left the room. T. B. had seen the move and followed with rapid steps. He overtook the Count in the open doorway of the house.
“A word with you, Count,” he said, and they descended the steps together into the street. “The will was rather a surprise to you?”
Count Poltavo was now all smooth equanimity. You might not have thought from his smooth face and his smile, and his gentle drawling tone, that he had been affected by the reading of this strange document.
“It is a surprise, I confess,” he said. “I do not understand my friend Farrington’s action in regard to—” he hesitated.
“In regard to Miss Gray,” smiled T. B.
Of a sudden the self-control of the man left him, and he turned with a snarling voice on the detective, but his wrath was not directed toward the cool man who stood before him.
“The treacherous dog!” he hissed, “to do this—to me. But it shall not be, it shall not be, I tell you; this woman is more to me than you can imagine.” He struck his breast violently. “Can I speak with you privately?”
“I thought you might wish to,” said T. B.
He lifted his hand and made an almost imperceptible signal, and a taxicab which had stood on the opposite side of the road, and followed them slowly as they walked along Brakely Square, suddenly developed symptoms of activity, and came whirring across the road to the sidewalk.
T. B. opened the door and Poltavo stepped in, the detective following. There was no need to give any instructions, and without any further order the cab whirled its way through the West End until it came to the arched entrance of Scotland Yard, and there the man alighted. By the time they had reached T. B.’s room, Poltavo had regained something of his self-possession. He walked up and down the room, his hands thrust into his pockets, his head sunk upon his breast.
“Now,” said T. B., seating himself at his desk, “what would you like to say?”
“There is much I would like to say,” said Poltavo, quietly, “and I am now considering whether it will be in my interest to tell all at this moment or whether it would be best that I should maintain my silence longer.”
“Your silence in regard to Farrington I presume you are referring to,” suggested T. B. Smith easily; “perhaps I can assist you a little to unburden your mind.”
“I think not,” said Poltavo, quickly; “you cannot know as much about this man as I. I had intended,” he said, frankly, “to tell you much that would have surprised you; at present it is advisable that I should wait for one or two days in order that I may give some interested people an opportunity of undoing a great deal of mischief which they have done. I must go to Paris at once.”
T. B. said nothing; there was no purpose to be served in hastening the issue at this particular moment. The man had recovered his self-possession, he would talk later, and T. B. was content to wait, and for the moment to entertain his unexpected guest.
“It is a strange place,” said the Count calmly, scrutinizing the room; “this is Scotland Yard! The Great Scotland Yard! of which all criminals stand in terror, even with which our local criminals in Poland have some acquaintance.”
“It is indeed a strange place,” said T. B. “Shall I show you the strangest place of all?”
“I should be delighted,” said the other.
T. B. led the way along the corridor, rang for the lift, and they were shot up to the third floor. Here at the end of a long passage, was a large room, in which row after row of cabinets were methodically arrayed.
“This is our record department,” said T. B.; “it will have a special interest for you, Count Poltavo.”
“Why for me?” asked the other, with a smile.
“Because I take it you are interested in the study of criminal detection,” replied T. B. easily.
He walked aimlessly along one extensive row of drawers, and suddenly came to a halt.
“Here, for instance, is a record of a remarkable man,” he said. He pulled open a drawer unerringly, ran his fingers along the top of a batch of envelopes and selected one. He nodded the Count to a polished table near the window, and pulled up two chairs.
“Sit down,” he said, “and I will introduce you to one of the minor masters of the criminal world.”
Count Poltavo was an interested man as T. B. opened the envelope and took out two plain folders, and laid them on the table.
He opened the first of these; the photograph of a military-looking man in Russian uniform lay upon the top. Poltavo saw it, gasped, and looked up, his face livid.
“That was the Military Governor of Poland,” said T. B., easily; “he was assassinated by one who posed as his son many years ago.”
The Count had risen quickly, and stood shaking from head to foot, his trembling hand at his mouth.
“I have never seen him,” he muttered. “I think your record office is very close—you have no ventilation.”
“Wait a little,” said T. B., and he turned to the second dossier.
Presently he extracted another
