girl—she mustn't figure in a case of that kind, for all the facts will come out. You think you have another charge against him; well, prove it. That man killed John Millinborn and I believe you can put him behind bars. As the guardian angel of Oliva Cresswell you have shown certain lamentable deficiencies"—the smile in his eyes was infectious, and Stanford Beale smiled in sympathy. "In that capacity I have no further use for your services and you are fired, but you can consider yourself re-engaged on the spot to settle with van Heerden. I will pay all the expenses of the chase—but get him."
He put out his hand and Stanford gripped it.
"You're a great man, sir," he breathed.
The old man chuckled.
"And you may even be a great detective," he said. "In five minutes your Mr. Lassimus White will be here. You suggested I should send for him—who is he, by the way?"
"The managing director of Punsonby's. A friend of van Heerden's and a shareholder in his Great Adventure."
"But he knows nothing?"
There was a tap at the door and a page-boy came into the sitting-room with a card.
"Show the gentleman up," said Kitson; "it is our friend," he explained.
"And he may know a great deal," said Beale.
Mr. White stalked into the room dangling his glasses with the one hand and holding his shiny silk hat with the other. He invariably carried his hat as though it were a rifle he were shouldering.
He bowed ceremoniously and closed the door behind him.
"Mr.—ah—Kitson?" he said, and advanced a big hand. "I received your note and am, as you will observe, punctual. I may say that my favourite motto is 'Punctuality is the politeness of princes.'"
"You know Mr. Beale?"
Mr. White bowed stiffly.
"I have—ah—met Mr. Beale."
