"It's my business to listen,
and to suspect everybody. If you push me to say so, how do I know
Colonel Clay is not--Mr. Wentworth?"
Charles withered him with a look. "In future, Medhurst," he said,
"you must never conceal yourself in a room where I am without my
leave and knowledge."
Medhurst bowed politely. "Oh, as you will, Sir Charles," he
answered; "that's _quite_ at your own wish. Though how can I act
as an efficient detective, any way, if you insist upon tying my
hands like that, beforehand?"
Again I detected a faint American flavour.
After that rebuff, however, Medhurst seemed put upon his mettle. He
redoubled his vigilance in every direction. "It's not my fault," he
said plaintively, one day, "if my reputation's so good that, while
I'm near you, this rogue won't approach you. If I can't _catch_ him,
at least I keep him away from coming near you!"
A few days later, however, he brought Charles some photographs.
These he produced with evident pride. The first he showed us was a
vignette of a little parson. "Who's that, then?" he inquired, much
pleased.
We gazed at it, open-eyed. One word rose to our lips simultaneously:
"Brabazon!"
"And how's this for high?" he asked again, producing another--the
photograph of a gay young dog in a Tyrolese costume.
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