"Well, I don't know how to answer that question. He is a scholar—and then he's a member of the House of Lords."
A subtle change swept over the faces of the policemen. They became absurdly deferential. Their interest, which had been perfunctory, grew intent. The surgeons and the nurse, hardened to such deathbed scenes, responded also to the element of drama which Hugh's words had injected into the drab story.
"Gee-roosalum!" exclaimed the policeman. "This begins to look big. Who could have wanted to bump off a guy like him? Was he—a gay sorter old boy, eh?"
"Positively, no. He was the last man to suspect of anything like that. He has been a traveler and student all his life."
"What was his specialty?"
"Gypsy dialects and history, and the ancient history of Constantinople.'
"Gypsies, eh?" The detective was all alert. "He was picked up corner of Thirteenth Street and Avenue C. There's a plenty of Gypsy dumps in that neighborhood. A man and three women saw him dropped from a closed auto. The Gyps are a bad people to get down on you, clannish as hell and awful suspicious. It may be this here Lord Chesby crossed some family of 'em in his studying and they went out to knife him.'
"It may be," agreed Hugh, "but I haven't a thing to back up the assertion with."
"Well, we'll start to work on that clue anyhow."
The detective stepped around the screen, and Hugh touched the senior surgeon on the arm.