"Thirty-five years, sir. I worked for old Mr. Copley before his daughter married Mr. Varr. This is a shocking business, sir."
The conversation carried them to the pantry door, whither Bates had led them. His hand was on the knob when Creighton checked him with a touch on his elbow, at which the old man jumped nervously.
"One moment. A butler who keeps his ears open often knows a lot that other people don't. What is your idea about this? Can you guess who murdered Mr. Varr?"
"No, sir!" His voice was almost panicky. "Indeed I can't, sir!"
"Uh-huh," said Creighton easily. Was the old fellow suffering from frazzled nerves or from hidden knowledge? Another little matter for future examination. "By the way, how is Mrs. Varr standing the shock?"
"Not too well, sir. She bore up like the brave lady she is until Mr. Norvallis was through with her, then broke down. She's in bed. The doctor says she must keep quiet and that she'll be all right, but he's coming again this afternoon."
"Get him to give you something for yourself," was Creighton's kindly admonition. "You're trembling like a leaf. The family will be depending on you a lot these next few days. Don't let them down by getting sick."
"I won't, sir. Thank you, sir."
Creighton permitted him to escape, well satisfied with the new tone in the man's voice as he acknowledged his appreciation of the detective's interest. Creighton was never harsh with a witness, never tried to bulldoze or rattle him, until all else had failed. His policy was to put people at their ease and gentle them into talking freely, a course that was all the more facile for him by reason of his genuine sympathy and understanding and his native kindliness.
Krech was waiting patiently behind a plate piled high with sandwiches. There was coffee, too, and before the butler left them alone, he stood an interesting decanter on the table. A shadow of gloom that overspread the big man's extensive countenance was visibly lightened by this.