“He may turn up yet,” Peter Ruff remarked, cheerfully. “He’s like myself—a late bird.”
“I fear not,” Dory answered, drily. “Nice rooms you have here, sir. Just a sitting room and bedroom, eh?”
Peter Ruff stood up and threw open the door of the inner apartment.
“That’s so,” he answered. “Care to have a look round?”
The detective did look round, and pretty thoroughly. As soon as he was sure that there was no one concealed upon the premises, he drank his whisky and soda and went.
“I’ll look in again to see Cawdor,” he remarked—“to-morrow, perhaps, or the next day.”
“I’ll let him know if I see him about,” Peter Ruff declared. “Sorry the lift’s stopped. Three steps to the left and straight on. Good-night!”
Miss Brown arrived early the following morning, and was disposed to be inquisitive.
“I should like to know,” she said, “exactly what has become of Mr. Vincent Cawdor.”
Peter Ruff took her upstairs. There was a little mound of ashes in the grate.