“Did you see?” came the girl’s voice. “This one—second from the top on the right-hand side. It’s locked, unfortunately.”
“Bother!” said Mr. Priestley with feeling. How on earth did one tackle a locked drawer? Ah, of course! “Do you think you could get me the poker, if there is one?” he asked, feeling his way over to the table.
He heard the girl move across the room and a minute later a stout bar of iron was in his hands. He touched the drawer with it tentatively. Nothing much happened.
“Bother!” said Mr. Priestley again.
“What a pity you didn’t bring your tools, after all,” observed Mrs. Spettigue in a thoughtful voice.
Mr. Priestley gave the drawer a smart rap. The noise which resulted seemed as if it must have awakened the Seven Sleepers. Mr. Priestley hurriedly abandoned this method of approach.
“I think perhaps, if we——!”
He broke off abruptly, for at that moment the electric light flooded the room and a gruff voice remarked, in somewhat jerky tones, “Ah, Chicago Kate—er—um—I suppose? I was—er—um—expecting you.”
There was a terrified squeak from the girl at his side, and Mr. Priestley, spinning hastily round, found himself confronting, as it seemed to his horrified gaze, the biggest man he had ever seen.
This formidable-looking personage now standing in the open doorway was in full evening kit, with a broad blue ribbon across his shirt-front and an imposing decoration hung about his neck, evidently the insignia of some important order. And these were not the only striking things about him; the big black beard that covered his cheeks and chin and was trimmed to a neat point some three inches below his collar-stud, added considerably to the strikingness of his appearance. The fact that he fingered this beard with a gesture that was very like nervousness, and that his halting, almost reluctant tones were in strange contrast with the general fierceness of his aspect, Mr. Priestley was far too agitated to remark.