Just as I was a failure at one thing, he
is a success at everything. I remember him as a journalist, a
house-agent, a naturalist, an inventor, a publisher, a
schoolmaster, a--what are you now, Rupert?"
"I am and have been for some time," said Rupert, with some dignity,
"a private detective, and there's my client."
A loud rap at the door had cut him short, and, on permission being
given, the door was thrown sharply open and a stout, dapper man
walked swiftly into the room, set his silk hat with a clap on the
table, and said, "Good evening, gentlemen," with a stress on the
last syllable that somehow marked him out as a martinet, military,
literary and social. He had a large head streaked with black and
grey, and an abrupt black moustache, which gave him a look of
fierceness which was contradicted by his sad sea-blue eyes.
Basil immediately said to me, "Let us come into the next room,
Gully," and was moving towards the door, but the stranger said:
"Not at all. Friends remain. Assistance possibly."
The moment I heard him speak I remembered who he was, a certain
Major Brown I had met years before in Basil's society. I had
forgotten altogether the black dandified figure and the large
solemn head, but I remembered the peculiar speech, which consisted
of only saying about a quarter of each sentence, and that sharply,
like the crack of a gun.
Pages:
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27