Andrew, don't think I'm mad but I've taken up the
challenge our great philanthropist flung at me to-night. I've
very little interest in who killed this boy Victor Bidlake, or
why, but I'm convinced of one thing--Brast knew about it, and if
he is posing as a patron of crime on a great scale, sooner or
later I shall get him. He may think himself safe, and he may
have the courage of Beelzebub--he seems rather that type--but if
my presentiment about him--comes true, his number's up. I can
almost divine the meaning of his breaking in upon our
conversation to-night. He needs an enemy--he is thirsting for
danger. He has found it!"
Wilmore filled his pipe thoughtfully. At the first whiff of
tobacco he began to feel more normal.
"After all, Francis," he said, "aren't we a little overstrung
to-night? Sir Timothy Brast is no adventurer. He is a prince
in the city, a persona grata wherever he chooses to go. He isn't
a hanger-on in Society. He isn't even dependent upon Bohemia for
his entertainment. You can't seriously imagine that a man with
his possessions is likely to risk his life and liberty in
becoming the inspiration of a band of cutthroats?"
Francis smiled. He, too, had lit his pipe and had thrown himself
into his favourite chair. He smiled confidently across at his
friend.
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