Before letting him out of his sight, Roger had extracted a promise from the unwilling inspector, obtained by means of the most blatant threats in connection with his capacity as a reporter, to allow him to be in at the death on the following morning. Not altogether trusting to the efficacy of a promise won under such conditions however, he was out of bed at least an hour earlier than usual and proceeded to watch the inspector’s door with lynx-eyed assiduity. He need not really have troubled. Inspector Moresby, while quite alive to the advantages of appearing to grant a difficult favour, had not the least objection to figuring on a million breakfast-tables as the hero of a thrilling arrest, complete with full details “from our special correspondent, who was an actual eye-witness of the scene.” Not the very least objection. Roger had lost an hour’s sleep for nothing.
They breakfasted and set out together, leaving Anthony to kick his heels in the inn or meditate over the beauties of nature from the top of a convenient cliff as he saw fit.
The house in which the Rev. Samuel Meadows, alias Slippery Sam, alias Herbert Peters, alias etc. etc., had taken rooms, was in the centre of the village. The two walked briskly along to the front door, Roger on his toes with excitement at reaching the end of the chase, the inspector relating anecdotes of the really interesting arrests he had effected.
A stout woman opened the door to them and smiled as she recognised Roger. “Yes, he’s in his sitting-room,” she said, in answer to their inquiries. “I took his breakfast along not much over an hour ago, and he hasn’t gone out yet. Not but what he isn’t a quiet gentleman altogether, the Rev. Meadows; never does go out much, he doesn’t. Keeps ’imself to ’imself, as you might say. A better lodger I couldn’t wish for. Now the last gentleman who had these rooms⸺”
“Can we go along?” asked Roger.
“To be sure you can, sir,” agreed the stout woman with much heartiness. “You know the way, don’t you? Seeing as you were here only the other day, I mean. And you might tell him I’ll be down in a minute for the tray, will you, sir? Then you’ll be more comfortable-like, you see. I ought to have fetched it sooner, I know, but what with one thing and another, there! the time goes before you ever notice it’s gone, doesn’t it?”
“Long before,” Roger murmured mechanically, following the inspector down the narrow passage. Still discoursing, the stout woman disappeared into the upper regions.
The two stopped out of sight of the stairs and Roger indicated the door of the Rev. Samuel’s sitting-room. Dispensing with the formality of a knock, the inspector pushed it open and entered.
Just inside the threshold he halted so abruptly that Roger, following close on his heels, collided with his burly back. “Hullo!” he exclaimed softly. “Hul-lo!”
Roger peered over his shoulder. The Rev. Samuel Meadows was certainly there, for he could see him seated in a chair by the window, a copy of the Courier across his knees. But his head was sunk on his chest, one arm hung limply by his side, and his whole attitude was twisted and unnatural.