"The girl you doubtless recognize. She
was once a typist in the office of Messrs. Harding & Densmore. She was
quite lately, as I dare say you remember, able to give me some very useful
information; in fact it is through her that Mr. Stanley did not leave this
country for South Africa with a hundred pounds in his pocket."
"And the man?" I asked.
Mr. Bundercombe was thoroughly enjoying himself. He drew his chair a
little closer to mine and waited until he was quite sure that no one was
within earshot.
"The man," he replied, "is one of the world's most famous criminals."
"He doesn't look it," I remarked, glancing across the room with some
interest.
Mr. Bundercombe smiled.
"Great criminals are not all of the same type," he reminded me
reprovingly. "That is where you people who don't understand the cult of
criminology make your foolish mistakes. Our friend opposite is, without a
doubt, of gentle though not of aristocratic birth. I know nothing of his
bringing up, but his instincts do all that is necessary for him. The first
time I saw him was in one of the criminal courts in New York. He was being
tried for his life for an attempted robbery in Fifth Avenue and the murder
of a policeman.
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