So the two went to the apartment of Letitia Prall, and there found the family connections of Sir Herbert Binney in a high state of excitement.
It was nearly noon, and Richard Bates was impatiently waiting the arrival of the detective, whom he had been expecting all the morning.
“Look here,” he said to the two men when they came in, “I want you to take hold of this case with me,—if you can’t do it, I’ll get somebody who can. I don’t want you to be off skylarking on a wild goose chase, while I sit here waiting for you——”
“One moment, Mr Bates,” said Corson, sharply; “we’re not detectives in your employ; we’re police officers, and we’re conducting this case in accordance with orders.”
“Well, well, let’s get at it, and see where we stand. What do you know?”
“Only the message on the paper left by your uncle, and such testimony as we could gather from the employees downstairs. Now, we want to interview you.”
“And I want to be interviewed. Go ahead.”
“Interview all of us,” put in Eliza Gurney, who with Miss Prall had sat silent during the men’s colloquy, but was quite ready to talk.
“One at a time,” and Gibbs took up the conversation. “Mr Bates, where were you last evening?”
“That,” said Richard, “I decline to state, on the grounds that it has no bearing on the question of my uncle’s death. If you ask me where I was at the time of the tragedy, or shortly before, I will tell you. But last evening or yesterday afternoon or morning are not pertinent.”