"Nothing," the young man returned shortly. "Good-night."
Mr. Slade's parchment-like countenance again bent over the big volume, and his pen flew industriously. It was startling, when the door had nearly closed, to have the rasping voice come after them with the suddenness of an explosion.
"Howard Lynden!" it cried. That gentleman, surprised, thrust his head back into the room.
With pen poised in hand, with spectacles still balanced near the tip of his thin nose, the ill-favored mask of Slade's countenance was again confronting the detective and his companion.
"What time was that murder?" asked the abstracter.
"At five o'clock," Lynden rejoined, he and the Captain again advancing into the room.
"And the murdered man?"
"General Westbrook's friend, Señor de Sanchez."
The little eyes turned once more quickly to the Captain and back to Lynden as he asked the next question:
"Ah! And who was—the—murderer?" He spoke deliberately, his harsh voice lowering itself strangely.