It was a bit
disconcerting, I think, for both. He was plain and blunt--and
honest.
"Well," he said, "where's Watson? Who are you? What do you want?"
"That," I answered, "is a question for both of us. Who are you,
and what do you want? Where is Watson?"
Just then his eyes dropped and his glance fell and eyes widened.
"My name is Jerome," he said simply. "Has something happened to
Watson? Who are you?"
We were standing in the library; I made an indication towards the
other room. "In there," I said. "My name is Wendel."
He took off his hat and ran the back of his hand across his
forehead.
"So that pair got him, too! I was afraid of them all the while.
And I had to be away. Do you know how they did it? What's the
working of their game? It's devilish and certainly clever. They
played that boy for a year; they knew they would get him in the
end. So did I.
"He was a fine lad, a fine lad. I knew this morning when I came
down from Nevada that they had him. Found your duds. A stranger.
House looked queer. But I had hopes he might have gone over to see
his girl. Just thought I'd wander over to Berkeley. Found that
bird Rhamda under a palm tree watching the Holcomb bungalow. It
was the first time I'd seen him since that day things went amiss
with the professor. In about ten minutes you came out. I stayed
with him while he tracked you back here; I followed him back down
town and lost him.
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