“May I accept your recent invitation to sit down?” he asked, after a moment. We begged him to do so, and all three seated ourselves. “I was concerned in this West Roxbury affair,” he said in a lowered voice, “in a way that gave me an insight into some of its unusual features.” “Detective?” asked Dudley, also sinking his voice. “Not at all,” Mr. Barnes replied. “To be perfectly frank with you—as it’s only right I should be in view of the favor I’m going to ask—I was associated in a confidential way with the defense. Hard put to it for evidence they were, and I was able to turn up some for them. But the case was so extraordinary that after it was all over I began looking into various points that came up, and one thing led to another until I found I was in deep and moreover so interested that I couldn’t quit. Besides that, it began to look to me like a gold mine if it was handled right. Although the papers were full of it at the time, not only here in Boston but throughout the States and Canada, the real facts at the bottom of it never came to light—a case of ‘diplomatic suppression’ by the police, if I may be allowed to use the expression.” “How gold mine?” asked Dudley. “Publication,” answered Barnes. “I now have virtually the whole thing; and some of it is bound to stir up the animals a bit. I wouldn’t have thought of troubling you with all this but for hearing you say that Mr. McClintock is a reporter. I’m hoping you can give me a little advice, Mr. McClintock, on getting the thing into book form. I have it all in my mind, and notes and memoranda to keep it there. But I’ve got to get some one to write it down for me, as that’s something entirely out of my line.” “What you want, Mr. Barnes,” I said, “is a literary chap—some one in the fiction line—a story writer.” “Pardon me, Mr. McClintock, but that’s the very thing I don’t want. I’ve spent a considerable amount of time—not to speak of some money—in digging up the truth about this affair; and after all this to have it get into the hands of a story writer and be labeled on every page as a cheap concoction of his brain would be a calamity. I don’t want any ‘our hero’ and ‘dear reader’ and that sort of throw-down in the account of this Haworth case, nor any ‘Foreword’ or dedication to somebody whose loving care has helped me through or sustained me in hours of anguish. Everything that’s going into this book I saw, or heard, or got first-hand from the parties concerned. And as you’re in that line Mr. McClintock, I thought perhaps you could put me in the way of finding a reporter of the kind I need, who’d take it down the way I give it to him, the same as he would for a newspaper. I’m asking a great favor, but if you haven’t anyone in mind don’t hesitate to say so.” I considered for a little, but finally had to tell him that at the moment I couldn’t think of anyone available for such a piece of work. He rose apologetically, but hesitated an instant as he stood there.