"Oh, he could n't, eh?" observed I, thoughtfully, leading the way to the landing.
But I could not permit myself to theorize at this stage—an indulgence which, when premature, inevitably colors one's opinions, and prejudices all attempts at clear, logical reasoning.
CHAPTER III
SOME DISCOVERIES
But I was not yet permitted to begin my examination of the body and its immediate surroundings. I had no sooner arrived at the landing than I heard a man's voice, somewhere above in the second story, speaking with a note of determination that demanded some sort of recognition from the person addressed. The clear, ringing, resolute tone made me involuntarily pause and listen.
"Where 's your headquarters man?" the voice was irately demanding. "I want to see him, d' ye hear? You blithering idiot, I 'm going down those stairs; if you want to rough it, just try to stop me."
Another voice was raised in expostulation. Stodger, at my elbow, suddenly chuckled.
"That's him!" he whispered, with an unaccountable excitement. "That's Maillot!"
"He must be a tartar," I observed.