“Pardon me, Sir Calvin,” said he; “but before you proceed any further, would you not prefer that I should withdraw? I cannot but feel that my visit itself is proving untimely, and that it were better that I should relieve you of the embarrassment of——”
But the General broke in forcibly.
“Not a bit of it! There’s nothing to conceal. Damn it, man! Beyond helping this Sergeant what we can to find out the truth, I don’t see why the even tenour of our ways need disturb itself by so much as a thought. No, no; you came for chess, and you’ll stay for chess!” A sentiment which, while justifying my own attitude, pretty effectually disposed of the Baron’s affected, and perhaps interested scruples.
He smiled, with a tiny shrug. “Well, if I am not in the way!” and addressed the detective; “the ruling passion, you see, Sergeant Ridgway. Do you play chess?”
“A little,” answered the man, cautious even in his admission. “It’s a great game.”
“It’s the game,” said the Baron. “We’ll play, you and I, one of these days, when you’re needing some distraction from your labours.”
“Very well, sir,” responded the detective civilly, and at that moment Mrs. Bingley entered the room.
Wildshott was, by common assent, fortunate in its housekeeper. She was a good soul and a good manager, strict but tolerant, ruling by tact alone. Spare and wiry, her virgin angularity (despite her courtesy title), was of the sort one associates with blessed women in old painted manuscripts. Firmness and patience showed in her capable face, to which agitation had now lent a rather red-eyed pallor. She bowed to Sir Calvin, and faced the detective quietly:—
“You wanted to speak with me, sir?”
“Just a few words,” he answered. “This young woman’s name, Mrs. Bingley——?”