While thus meditating, a card was brought to him inscribed, rather abruptly, with the curt name, "Torry." Who he might be Darrel could not guess, but the owner of this baronial appellation seemed to think that it was sufficient to introduce him, as one not unknown to renown. Somewhat amused by this hinted vanity, Darrel gave orders that the visitor should be admitted, and speedily found himself face to face with a short little man, smiling and voluble. Mr. Torry was extremely stout, with a plump, red-cheeked face, clean-shaven; very white teeth, and a fringe of scanty brown hair encircling a polished bald head. At first sight he looked a kindly, frivolous creature, but a closer inspection shewed that his eyes contradicted this opinion. These were of a greyish-blue, keen and penetrating, and changed colour in accordance with the emotions in their owner's mind. A man with such eyes could not be a fool, and, with characteristic caution, Darrel held his peace until the visitor should explain his business.
"I have called," said Mr. Torry, taking a chair uninvited, "to see you about this Mortality-lane affair."
"From New Scotland Yard, to be precise. I am Torry the detective, and the case I spoke of has been placed in my hands for elucidation."
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Torry," cried Darrel eagerly, "and any evidence I can give is at your disposal. But I have a favour to ask of you."
"A favour!" cried Mr. Torry, in his turn, "Granted. I love doing favours."
"Then do me this one," said Frank. "Let me assist you in the conduct of this case."
Mr. Torry's eyes flashed like steel, and his mouth shut with a snap on the curt query: "Why?"
"Well," said Darrel slowly, "you see, I am a novelist who tries to set forth things as they are, for the benefit of the B. P. I have written one or two detective novels, and have explained the mysteries of divers crimes, simply because, in the first instance, I invented those crimes. To parody Gilbert's song, I made the crime fit the discovery, and, so to speak, built up a house of cards, to be knocked down in the final chapter. Now here, Mr. Torry," pursued the young man with uplifted finger, "here is a crime in actual life, of chance's own making, which I, not having conceived, cannot elucidate. I, therefore, wish to set my wits to work, in order to learn if they will serve me as well in fact as they have done in fiction. I desire to take an active part in the working out of this real problem, to see if my literary method of detective analysis is correct. On these grounds--purely selfish ones, I fear--I ask you to let me assist you."