Upon arrival at his offices in Cornhill he found Peter awaiting him with anxious impatience.
“I’m jolly glad to see you,” was his greeting. “There’s been a second message from Assynton—young Stewart was particularly anxious to talk to you—he seemed quite annoyed when I told him you were still away from the office.”
“Peter,” said Linnell, “we’ve been caught in a most curious set of circumstances. When you ’phoned me just now, at Day, Forshaw and Palmers’, what do you imagine I was doing?”
Peter looked at him blankly. “Doing? Why—having a look round of course—the same as I had. What are you driving at?”
“I’m not driving at anything, Peter. I’m just giving you some information. When I arrived at the show-rooms this morning I had rather a ‘jolt.’ The police were there—the Galleries had been robbed during the night—and what is even more dreadful than that, a night-watchman employed there had been brutally murdered.”
Peter gasped. “Good Lord! My telephone message to you must have been a shock.”
“It was! I could hardly believe my ears! I decided not to say anything to you over the ’phone but to come back here.”
Peter thrust his hands into his trousers-pockets. “Funny thing—we seem in it both ends—don’t we? The whole thing is very queer. Both here and in Berkshire.”
Linnell shook his head. “Not really. We just happened to be in at the Galleries end because Stewart sent us there—but I haven’t finished yet.”
Peter uttered a cry of amazement. “Don’t say there are any more——”