"Lord Heyton, the Marquess's son," whispered the Inspector.
Mr. Jacobs nodded; he did not direct a piercing glance at Heyton's pale face and bloodshot eyes, with their swollen lids; in fact, he did not appear to notice anything, as he went forward, hat in hand.
A few words of commonplace greeting were exchanged; Mr. Jacobs expressed his sympathy in a low voice, devoid of any acuteness, and Heyton drew a breath of relief, as he led the way into the library; to him it seemed that the man from Scotland Yard looked rather stupid than otherwise. Mr. Jacobs took a seat, and Heyton, of his own accord, repeated, almost word for word, the account he had given to the Inspector.
"It's my opinion," he wound up, "that you'll find the man amongst those blackguard gipsies."
"Yes, my lord?" responded the detective, interrogatively. Then he went upstairs to the dressing-room. "I think I should like to be alone in here, my lord, if you don't mind," he said.
He took the key from the Inspector, and went in, closing the door after him. When he came out, his round, innocent-looking face was grave, but revealed nothing.
"Has the Marquess recovered consciousness?" he asked.
"Not yet, I am sorry to say," replied Heyton. "They are keeping the room very quiet, and my wife will tell me the moment my father comes to."
"I should like to know, when he does so, my lord," said the detective. "Is there anyone else with him—I mean, beside the doctor and the nurse?"
"Mrs. Dexter, the housekeeper, and a young lady, Miss Grant, a kind of secretary and librarian."