Langholm, at all events, read a warning in the words--a warning to himself not to call on Mr.Crofts as a friend of the dead man's wife.

And this increased the complication, ultimately suggesting a bolder step than the man of letters quite relished, yet one which he took without hesitation in Rachel's cause.

He had in his pocket the card of the detective officer who had shown him over the Black Museum; luckily it was still quite clean; and Langholm only wished he looked the part a little more as he finally sallied forth.
Mr.Crofts was in, his small clerk said, and the sham detective followed the real one's card into the inner chamber of the poky offices upon the third floor.

Mr.Crofts sat aghast in his office chair, the puzzled picture of a man who feels his hour has come, but who wonders which of his many delinquencies has come to light.

He was large and florid, with a bald head and a dyed mustache, but his coloring was an unwholesome purple as the false pretender was ushered in.
"I am sorry to intrude upon you, Mr.Crofts," began Langholm, "but I have come to make a few inquiries about the late Alexander Minchin, who, I believe, once--" "Quite right! Quite right!" cried Crofts, as the purple turned a normal red in his sanguine countenance.