Now, it had been nearly two hours before this that a telephone call had been received at police headquarters.
“Is dees polizia stazione?” Inspector Collins had heard, as he held the receiver to his ear.
Through the green cord the broken voice spoke in a halting way, as if uncertain how to word the message.
“Yes; who is speaking?” Collins replied.
“Meester Rowlan’ Trowbridga,—he is dead-a.”
“I can’t hear you! What’s all that racket where you are?”
“My bambini—my childaren. They have-a da whoopa-cough.”
“It’s more than children making all that noise! Who are you?”
“Not matter. I say, Meester Trowbridga—he dead-a.”
“Rowland Trowbridge dead! Where—who are you?”