“Six years, Druce, you’ve been with us,” supplemented his employer, “six years last Easter.”
Druce nodded. “That’s it, sir. And I hope I’ve always given satisfaction.”
A glint of humor shot through Goodall’s eyes.
“What time were you relieved last night?” he asked.
“About five to twelve, sir, or thereabouts.”
“Mason came on then? Was that about his usual time?”
“It were, sir,” replied Druce. “He never varied much, sir, did Mason—steady and reliable he were—always. What’s come to him, sir?”
“He’s dead, Druce,” came the relentless reply, “murdered in the night.”
Druce went ashen pale. He licked his lips as the horror of the news struck home to him. “Murdered?” he managed to gasp.
“Now tell me, Druce,” proceeded Goodall, “did anything about Mason last night strike you as peculiar or—extraordinary?”