"You are a detective?"
Dyke Darrel looked into a smooth, boyish face, from which a pair of
brown eyes glowed.
"What is it you wish?" Darrel demanded, bluntly.
"I wish to make a confidant of somebody."
"Well, go on."
"First tell me if you are a detective."
"You may call me one."
"It's about that poor fellow you've just been interviewing," said the
young stranger. "I am Watson Wilkes, and I was on the train, in the
next car, when poor Nicholson was murdered. I was acting as brakeman
at the time. Do you wish to hear what I can tell?"
CHAPTER II.
DYKE DARREL'S TRICK.
"Certainly I do," cried the detective. "Come with me, and we will find
a place where we can talk without danger of interruption."
The two men moved swiftly down the street. At length Dyke Darrel
entered a well-known restaurant on Randolph street, secured a private
stall, and then bade Mr. Wilks proceed. Both men were seated at a
small table.
"Shan't I order the wine?"
"No," answered Dyke, with a frown. "We need clear brains for the work
in hand. If you know aught of this monstrous crime, tell it at once."
"I do know a considerable," said Mr. Wilks. "I was the first man who
discovered Arnold Nicholson after he'd been shot.
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