The full scope of his investigation was not apparent to the naked eye,
as Krech, who was chafing at the lack of developments and inclined to
accuse his friend of masterly inactivity, discovered one afternoon.
They were taking a stroll in the twilight at the detective's
insistence, and met a roughly-dressed individual with a cap on the back
of his head and a short pipe stuck in his mouth. He was loitering by
the side of the road, and to Krech's surprise, Creighton excused
himself and joined the man for a brief chat.

"Who's your rough-neck pal?" he demanded curiously as the detective
came back and suggested a return home. "His face is familiar but I
can't just place him."

"You once bought a painting from him when he was posing as an artist!"
Creighton chuckled. "He reminded me of it just now; said you're the
only connoisseur who ever really appreciated his work!"

"Gee Joseph! One of your men!"

"Fellow named Latimer."

"What is he doing around here?"

"Covering the tannery end of this affair. Latimer's an artist in more
ways than one. When I told him what I wanted, he got two books on
modern methods in tanning from the New York Public Library, studied
them on the train coming up, and landed a job as easy as you please
when Graham and Bolt started to replace the old hands who had left.
Snappy work!"

"Gosh. And I thought you were investigating this case single-handed!
You're a foxy guy at times, Creighton. Has Latimer learned anything
useful?"

"Not to me, I'm sorry to say. The few facts he has turned up seem
merely to darken the outlook for Charlie Maxon, that unfortunate
prisoner-pent. He appears to be quite as bad an egg as Mr. Norvallis
believes."

"Do you suppose Norvallis is making any progress with _his_ case?"
inquired Krech.

"He's sitting pretty with the voters!" said Creighton shortly. "By the
way, neither Bolt nor Graham knows who Latimer is. Don't tell 'em."

"I won't," promised the big man.

He did, however, after the fashion of husbands, tell his wife that
evening after dinner. They were standing together on the front steps
of their host's house, having been persuaded with no great difficulty
to lengthen their stay by at least another week, and Krech had just
lighted a cigar to keep him company while he strolled over to the Varr
home.

"You might have known Peter Creighton is never as idle as he looks,"
commented Jean Krech, when she had listened to the tale of Latimer.