“Then it is from that point we must commence our search for her. The Italian has gone on the wrong scent.”
“Not necessarily. The maid, we may be sure, will try to communicate with her mistress.”
“Still, it would be well to secure her before she can do that,” said the Judge. “With all we know now, a sharp interrogation might extract some very damaging admissions from her,” went on the detective, eagerly. “Who is to go? I have sent away both my assistants. Of course I can telephone for another man, or I might go myself.”
“No, no, dear colleague, we cannot spare you just yet. Telephone by all means. I presume you would wish to be present at the rest of the interrogatories?”
“Certainly, you are right. We may elicit more about this maid. Let us call in the porter now. He is said to have had relations with her. Something more may be got out of him.”
The more did not amount to much. Groote, the porter, came in, cringing and wretched, in the abject state of a man who has lately been drugged and is now slowly recovering. Although sharply questioned, he had nothing to add to his first story.
“Speak out,” said the Judge, harshly. “Tell us everything plainly and promptly, or I shall send you straight to gaol. The order is already made out;” and as he spoke, he waved a flimsy bit of paper before him.
“I know nothing,” the porter protested, piteously.
“That is false. We are fully informed and no fools. We are certain that no such catastrophe could have occurred without your knowledge or connivance.”
“Indeed, gentlemen, indeed—”