Though Cheyne thus enthusiastically received his companion’s suggestion, he was not greatly enamored of the idea. As he said, he had not liked the man personally, and he would have preferred to have kept the affair in his own hands. But he felt bankrupt of ideas for carrying on the inquiry, and if a professional was to be brought in, this man whom he knew and who was vouched for by the manager of the Edgecombe should be as good as another. He decided, however, that he would not employ the fellow on the case as a whole. His job should be to find the quartet, and if and when he did that he could be paid his money and sent about his business. Cheyne felt that at this stage at all events he was not going to share the secret of the linen tracing. But Cheyne, like many another before him, was to learn the difficulties which beset the path of him who makes half confidences. Chapter IX Mr. Speedwell Plays His Hand Next morning Cheyne called at the offices of Messrs. Horton & Lavender’s Private Detective Agency and asked if their Mr. Speedwell was within. By good fortune Mr. Speedwell was, and a few seconds later Cheyne was ushered into the room of the quiet, despondent-looking man whom he had interviewed at Warren Lodge nearly two months earlier. “Glad to see you’re better, sir,” the detective greeted him. “I was expecting you would look in one of these days. You had my letter?” “No,” said Cheyne, considerably surprised, “and I should like to know why you were expecting me and how you know I was ill.” The man smiled deprecatingly. “If I was really up to my job I suppose I’d tell you that detectives knew everything, or at least that I did, but I never make any mystery between friends, leastwise when there isn’t any. I knew you were ill because I was down at Warren Lodge a month ago looking for you and Miss Cheyne told me, and I was expecting you to call because I wrote asking you to do so. However, if you didn’t get my letter, why then it seems to me I owe the pleasure of this visit to something else.” “You’re quite right,” said Cheyne. “You do. But before we get on to that, tell me what you called and wrote about.” “I’ll do so, sir. I called because I had got some information for you, and when I didn’t see you I wrote for the same reason asking you to look in here.” The man spoke civilly and directly, but yet there was something about him which rubbed Cheyne up the wrong way—something furtive in his manner, by which instinctively the other was repelled. It was therefore with rather less than his usual good-natured courtesy that Cheyne returned: “Well, here I am then. What is your information?” “I’ll tell you, sir. But first let me recall to your mind what I—acting for my firm—was asked to find out.” He stressed the words “acting for my firm,” and as he did so shot a keen questioning glance at Cheyne. The latter did not reply, and Speedwell, after pausing for a moment, went on: