By the assistance of a friendly policeman, whom the poet magnetized into the belief that his business was a matter of life and death, Denzil obtained the great detective's private address. It was near King's Cross. By a miracle Wimp was at home in the afternoon. He was writing when Denzil was ushered up three pairs of stairs into his presence, but he got up and flashed the bull's-eye of his glance upon the visitor.
"Mr. Denzil Cantercot, I believe!" said Wimp.
Denzil started. He had not sent up his name, merely describing himself as a gentleman.
"You were one of the witnesses at the inquest on the body of the late Arthur Constant. I have your evidence there." He pointed to a file. "Why have you come to give fresh evidence?"
Again Denzil started, flushing in addition this time. "I want money," he said, almost involuntarily.
Wimp was young and fresh-colored. He had a Roman nose, and was smartly dressed. He had beaten Grodman by discovering the wife Heaven meant for him. He had a bouncing boy, who stole jam out of the pantry without anyone being the wiser. Wimp did what work he could do at home in a secluded study at the top of the house. Outside his chamber of horrors he was the ordinary husband of commerce. He adored his wife, who thought poorly of his intellect, but highly of his heart. In domestic difficulties Wimp was helpless. He could not even tell whether the servant's "character" was forged or genuine. Probably he could not level himself to such petty problems. He was like the senior wrangler who has forgotten how to do quadratics, and has to solve equations of the second degree by the calculus.
"I do not make bargains," Denzil replied, his calm come back by this time. "I came to tender you a suggestion. It struck me that you might offer me a fiver for my trouble. Should you do so, I shall not refuse it."
"You shall not refuse it--if you deserve it."
"Good. I will come to the point at once. My suggestion concerns--Tom Mortlake."
Denzil threw out the name as if it were a torpedo. Wimp did not move.
"Tom Mortlake," went on Denzil, looking disappointed, "had a sweetheart." He paused impressively.
"Yes, she is gone--without a trace. She went about a fortnight before Mr. Constant's murder."