Wedgwood. "Ever done business with him?"
"No!" answered Wraypoole. "Never been there before, never set eyes on him before, though he was so near by. My regular solicitors are in the City. I went to this man because I knew that any solicitor would do———"
Wedgwood stopped him. He already had an idea. Somebody—probably a temporary clerk—had personated the real Morgan Pugh, put Wraypoole's money in his pocket, and said nothing about it. But he saw how he could turn this affair to important advantage.
"Come aside, Wraypoole," he said. "Now," he went on, as he drew his man a little way from the others, "I think there has been a mistake—it strikes me the man you saw was not Morgan Pugh at all, but some clerk or other solicitor doing duty for him. Still, I've only your word for it—and there's this warrant! Where are you off to, Wraypoole, and why?"
"New York first—then the Argentine—oil business!" answered Wraypoole. "And it's a bit of a honeymoon—she was my housekeeper; we were married a week ago. I can give you my New York address."
He thrust a card into the detective's hand, and Wedgwood suddenly made up his mind.
"Look here!" he said. "I've been making enquiries about you because your movements
