That, I felt, was at least clever. The intruder had been a
man.
De Moche excused himself, and we continued our walk to the cafe,
where Whitney restored his shattered peace of mind somewhat.
"What's the result of your detective work on Norton?" ventured
Kennedy at last, seeing that Whitney was in a more expansive frame
of mind, and taking a chance.
"Oh," returned Whitney, "he's scared, all right. Why, he has been
hanging around this hotel--watching me. He thinks I don't know it,
I suppose, but I do."
Kennedy and I exchanged glances.
"But he's slippery," went on Whitney. "He knows that he is being
shadowed and the men tell me that they lose him, now and then. To
tell the truth I don't trust most of these private detectives. I
think their little tissue paper reports are half-faked, anyhow."
He seemed to want to say no more on the subject, from which I took
it that he had discovered nothing of importance.
"One thing, though," he recollected, after a moment. "He has been
going to see Inez Mendoza, they tell me."
"Yes?" queried Kennedy.
"Confound him. He pretty nearly got Lockwood in bad with her,
too," said Whitney, then leaning over confidentially added, "Say,
Kennedy, honestly, now, you don't believe that shoe-print stuff,
do you?"
"I see no reason to doubt it," returned Kennedy with diplomatic
firmness.
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