The bishop folded his hands over his umbrella. His heavy jaw had a curious expression of seeming to move about with repressed satisfaction.
"Quite so, my friend," he replied. "I shall tell the chief inspector about it when he has finished outlining the facts… Pray go on, sir."
"The valet testified," Hadley went on, after a slight pause, "that he seemed disturbed when he arrived back at the Guest House. He ordered his dinner to be sent to him in the study. And he did not, as seems to have been usual, dress for dinner.
"His dinner was taken up to him about half past eight, when he seemed to have been even more restless. He told the valet that he had work to do, and would be at home to nobody that night. Last night, you remember, was the end of the heat wave. The storm broke late in the evening—"
"Damme, and what a storm!" grunted the colonel. "Henry Morgan got caught in it, and had to walk three miles to—"
Hadley's temper was wearing thin. "If you don't mind, colonel" he said, "it will be rather necessary for you to know these things… Shortly after the storm broke, it blew down a wire or something of the sort, and all the lights went out. The valet, who was on the ground floor closing all the windows, rummaged about until he found some candles. He was about to go upstairs with them when there was a knock at the outer door.
"The wind blew out his candle when he opened the door, but when he had got it lighted again, he saw that the caller was nobody he had ever seen before…"
"You have a description of the man, Mr. Hadley?" the bishop put in crisply.
"Not a very good one. He was medium-sized, youngish, dark hair and moustache, loud clothes, and spoke with an American accent."
An expression of grim triumph drew the bishop's neck in folds over his collar. He nodded. Tray go on, Mr. Hadley?