"Inspector nothin'! Let me in!"
"Have you got a warrant?"
The question seemed to stagger the detective for a moment, and his adversary seized the opportunity to close the door. Then Peter knocked politely upon the other side of the curtains.
"I'm afraid, Mr. McAllister, I can't keep the officer out much longer. It's only a question of time. You'll pardon me, sir?"
"Of course, Peter," answered McAllister.
He stepped to the window. Outside he could see Conville stationing two plain-clothes men so as to guard both exits from the club. McAllister's breath came fast. Wilkins crouched in terror by the centre-table. Then a momentary inspiration came to the clubman.
"Er—Peter, this is my friend, Mr. Lloyd-Jones. Take his coat and hat, give me a check for them, and then show him upstairs to a room. He'll be here for an hour or so."
"Very good, sir," replied Peter without emotion, as he removed Wilkins's dripping coat and hat. "This way, sir."
Casting a look of dazed gratitude at his former master, the valet followed Peter toward the elevator.
"Here's a nice mess!" thought McAllister, as he returned to the big room. "How am I ever going to get rid of him? And ain't I liable somehow as an accomplice?"