The next morning at eight o’clock, Morton, the day doorman, came on duty.
Corson eagerly began at once to question him, and he told the story of Sir Herbert Binney’s departure from the house, but there his information ended.
“All I know is, Mr Binney went away from here in a taxicab, ‘long about half-past six, I think it was. And he went to the Hotel Magnifique,—at least, that’s what he told the driver. And that’s the last I saw of him. But his man, Peters, is due any minute,—maybe he’ll know more.”
“Peters? A valet?”
“Yes, and general factotum. He comes every morning at eight, and takes care of his boss.”
And in a few moments Peters arrived. His shocked astonishment at the news was too patently real to give the slightest grounds of suspicion that he had any knowledge of it before his arrival.
“Poor old duffer!” he said, earnestly, “he was awful fond of life. Now, who would kill him, I’d like to know!”
“That’s what we all want to know, Peters,” said Corson. “Come, I’ll go up to his rooms with you, and we can look things over.”
Up they went, and the detective looked about the apartment of the dead man with interest. There were but two rooms, a bedroom and bath and a good-sized sitting-room. The furniture was the usual type of hotel appointments and there were so few individual belongings that the place gave small indication of the habits or tastes of its late occupant.
“Nothing of a sybarite,” commented Corson, glancing at the few and simple toilet appurtenances.