Heyton poured out half a glassful of whisky, made a pretence of adding soda, and swallowed the spirit.
"Absolutely upset," he said, wiping his lips on his handkerchief. "But there! I half expected it. I was telling my father only last night—or was it the night before?—about those damned gipsies on the common. I warned him; yes, I warned him."
"Gipsies, my lord?" said the Inspector. "You suspect them?"
"Who else am I to suspect?" demanded Heyton, with a sideway glance of his bloodshot eyes.
"That remains to be seen, my lord," said the Inspector quietly; "for myself, I don't think the gipsies have had any hand in this. I should like you to tell me everything you know about the affair, please, my lord."
"Certainly, Inspector," responded Heyton, promptly. "But, you see, I know precious little; in fact, I don't know anything. My man came bursting into my room this morning, and told me they'd found my father—well, as you know, lying in his dressing-room, badly knocked about; and, of course, I went straight to his room, and—that's all I know about it."
"Quite so, my lord. I should like to see the room at once."
"Come on, then," said Heyton. He was quite calm, and was quite proud of being so calm. The Inspector might look at the room as long as he liked; it wouldn't tell him anything of the truth.
They went up to the dressing-room, and the Inspector walked straight to the safe and began to look, not at its contents, but along the edge of the door. He nodded with a kind of satisfaction, and said:
"I've wired for a detective; he's more at home at this kind of case than I am."