“I may be able to get into touch with somebody who may assist me—till Crake and Ferguson move in the matter. I had considered that possibility myself.”
Clegg concurred with a heavy shake of the head.
“Good. Now I must get a move on, too. I had better have an interview with some of these others.” He consulted his note-book with judicial gravity. “Ring for this Mr. Llewellyn—will you, Mr. Stewart—please?”
Within a few minutes the summons was answered. The secretary was a man somewhere in the early thirties. Of good height and slim, with the hair thinning considerably on the front of his head, his general appearance, aided by the pince-nez that he wore, suggested what may be termed not unkindly an academic superciliousness. His eyes were a rather unusual shade of reddish-brown and gave an acute observer an impression of brooding watchfulness. He entered the room quietly, yet perhaps warily.
“You wished to see me, I believe?”
Sergeant Clegg grunted a somewhat reluctant affirmative.
“I am conducting a preliminary investigation, Mr. Llewellyn, into the death of your employer, Mr. Laurence Stewart. If it lies in your power at all to help me, I want you to do so.”
“I am perfectly willing to tell you all I know—which I’m afraid isn’t very much.”
“Thank you. When were you first informed of the tragedy?”
“This morning—about eight o’clock—just about an hour and a half ago. I was in my bedroom dressing when Mr. Charles Stewart came to my door and told me he feared something was amiss with his father. I finished my toilet hastily and joined him and the butler, Butterworth. The maid, it appeared, had been unable to get into the library—the door was locked. The three of us burst down the door and were horrified to find Mr. Stewart as he is.” He inclined his head in the direction of the motionless body.