“No; the matter is urgent. You must ask him to leave the table and come to me here.”
His manner was imperative, and the maid went on her errand.
In a moment Louis Lindsay came to Prescott, where the detective waited, in the reception hall.
“What is it, my man?” said Lindsay, looking superciliously at his visitor. “I can’t see you now.”
“Just a moment, Mr Lindsay. Listen, please.”
Noting the grave face and serious voice of the speaker, young Lindsay seemed to become panic-stricken.
“What is it?” he said, in a gasping whisper. “Oh, what is it?”
“Why do you look like that?” Prescott said quickly. “What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know—I’m sure! Tell me!”
The boy, for he was little more than a boy, was ghastly white, his hands trembled and his lips quivered. He took hold of a chair back to steady himself, and Prescott, remembering what he had been told of Miss Lindsay, was tempted to ask for her. But he somehow felt he must go on with this scene.