"Who's this?" snapped Dunbar, without removing his leonine eyes from the
newcomer.
"It is Soames," came the weary voice of Leroux.
"Butler?"
"Yes."
"Where's he been?"
"I don't know. He remained out without my permission."
"He did, eh?"
Inspector Dunbar thrust forth a long finger at the shrinking form in the
doorway.
"Mr. Soames," he said, "you will be going to your own room and waiting
there until I ring for you."
"Yes, sir," said Soames, holding his hat in both bands, and speaking
huskily. "Yes, sir: certainly, sir."
He crossed the lobby and disappeared.
"There is no other way out, is there?" inquired the detective, glancing
at Dr. Cumberly.
"There is no other way," was the reply; "but surely you don't
suspect"...
"I would suspect the Archbishop of Westminster," snapped Dunbar, "if
he came in like that! Now, sir,"--he turned to Leroux--"you were alone,
here, to-night?"
"Quite alone, Inspector. The truth is, I fear, that my servants take
liberties in the absence of my wife."
"In the absence of your wife? Where is your wife?"
"She is in Paris."
"Is she a Frenchwoman?"
"No! oh, no! But my wife is a painter, you understand, and--er--I met
her in Paris--er--... Must you insist upon these--domestic particulars,
Inspector?"
"If Mr.
Pages:
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41