Of his renowned good looks there
was little left. He stood there, still tall, with high cheekbones, furtive
eyes and long mouth. He wore good clothes, his linen was irreproachable,
and he kept his gloves on. Nevertheless the stamp of the prison was upon
him.
"Mr. Stanley?" Mr. Bundercombe said. "Good! I am glad you were prevailed
upon to come."
"I am still wholly in the dark as to what this means!" the newcomer
remarked.
"I'll tell you in a very few sentences," Mr. Bundercombe promised. "Will
you sit down?"
"I prefer to stand," Stanley replied, "until I know exactly in whose house
I am and what your interest in me is."
"Very well!" Mr. Bundercombe agreed. "Here is my history: My name is
Joseph H. Bundercombe. I am an American manufacturer. I have made a
fortune in manufacturing Bundercombe's Reaping Machines. You may call it a
hobby, if you like, but I have always been interested in criminals and
criminal methods--not the lowest type, but men who have pitted their
brains against others and robbed them.
"As soon as I arrived in this country I found an interest in inquiring
into the identities of American criminals imprisoned over here, with a
view to helping any deserving cases. Your name came before me.
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