“You might as well let me try it, sir. If I fail there will be no harm done.”
Derrick, without realizing it, took his cue. “Well,” he said good-humouredly, “at any rate, you can’t do much harm by having a look at the room. What do you say, Martin? I’ll let you decide, since you’re responsible for Blunt while he’s here.”
Martin twisted his lips in a vain effort to speak, but it seemed that any reminder of responsibility was almost too much for him. He shot the peddler a swift glance, in which fear and respect were mingled, and when he looked at his master his eyes implored that he be not further involved. In that moment Martin acted like an honest man. Then the expression passed, and his face was once more a mask.
“That’s just as you feel about it, sir.”
Derrick turned to Blunt. “Well, then, you can come up, say, at six o’clock, and you’d better bring Martin with you. And, by the way,” he added, “if you want any details about this murder before you come, Martin knows a good deal more than I do, so you’d better pump him.”
Blunt shook his head. “It’s just as well I shouldn’t know anything at all, sir. Sometimes the more one thinks one knows the less one finds out.” Again he sent the young man that extraordinary look.
“All right; but if you change your mind, and Martin gets stuck, I’ll put you in touch with Perkins at the house.”
Martin started at this, but Blunt seemed unmoved. “Who might Perkins be?”
“The maid who was here when Mr. Millicent died. She found him.”
The man’s expression did not change in the slightest.