"How soon did he leave the house?"
"I don't know, sir. I seemed to hear noises for hours and hours, sir—and—and—" here I broke down with a really artistic sob. "It's turned me quite grey, sir—all about the temples—and I was brown as brown—last evening, sir!"
Sir William got to his feet and placed a hand upon my shoulder.
"There, there, Brown, compose yourself!" he said in kinder tones. "I can see that you have had a great fright, and you were right to run no risks. But tell me did you send for the police after you discovered that the man had gone?"
"I—no, sir," I stammered. "You told me on no account to leave the house!"
"Brown!" he cried indignantly.
"Well, sir—I—I—I—simply daren't venture outside the house, sir!" I blurted out.
My master frowned and shook his head. "Just as well, perhaps!" he muttered to himself. He added in a louder key. "Well, my man, you have given me much to think over, and I have trouble enough upon my hands already."
"Trouble, sir!" I repeated.
"A dear friend of mine is dead. You know him, Brown, Mr. George Cavanagh. He shot himself last night in his studio!"