They began well enough with the unexpected discovery that an eminent
authority on crime and criminals, who had been a good friend to Langholm
in his London days, was still in town. The novelist went round to his
house that night, chiefly because it was not ten minutes' walk from the
Cadogan Hotel, and with little hope of finding anybody at home. Yet
there was his friend, with the midnight lamp just lighted, and so kind a
welcome that Langholm confided in him on the spot. And the man who knew
all the detectives in London did not laugh at the latest recruit to
their ranks; but smile he did.
"I'll tell you what I might do," he said at length. "I might give you a
card that should get you into the Black Museum at New Scotland Yard,
where they would show you any relics they may have kept of the Minchin
murder; only don't say why you want to see them. Every man you see there
will be a detective; you may come across the very fellows who got up the
case; if so, they may tell you what they think of it, and you should be
able to find out whether they're trying again. Here you are, Langholm,
and I wish you luck. Doing anything to-morrow night?"
Langholm could safely say that he was not.
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