“You’re quick in the uptake, sir. And you’ll have no objection to saying so, careless like, at a suitable moment?”
“None whatever. I——”
He paused, as Battle gripped his arm. The superintendent was bent forward, listening.
Enjoining silence on Anthony with a gesture, he tiptoed noiselessly to the door, and flung it suddenly open.
On the threshold stood a tall man with black hair neatly parted in the middle, china blue eyes with a particularly innocent expression, and a large placid face.
“Your pardon, gentlemen,” he said in a slow drawling voice with a pronounced transatlantic accent. “But is it permitted to inspect the scene of the crime? I take it that you are both gentlemen from Scotland Yard?”
“I have not that honour,” said Anthony. “But this gentleman is Superintendent Battle of Scotland Yard.”
“Is that so?” said the American gentleman, with a great appearance of interest. “Pleased to meet you, sir. My name is Hiram P. Fish, of New York City.”
“What was it you wanted to see, Mr. Fish?” asked the detective.
The American walked gently into the room, and looked with much interest at the dark patch on the floor.