He moved to the telephone, rang up the police station and, after a few minutes’ delay, conducted a conversation with the inspector in charge. Afterwards he locked up the library, proceeded upstairs, took a bath, changed into his ordinary tweed morning clothes, and drank several cups of tea.
“Disturbed at all during the night, Morton?” he asked the butler.
“Can’t say that I was, sir,” the man replied, looking curiously at the slight wound on his master’s face.
“You sleep well then,” was the latter’s dry comment. “There was a burglary here between three and four o’clock. Keep your mouth shut until after the police have been.”
“God bless my soul, sir!” the man exclaimed. “You look as though you’d been hurt, sir.”
“Nothing to speak of. I heard a noise and went down. Fellow got at me before I could turn the light on. Remember, not a word, Morton. The police sergeant will be here in a few minutes.”
The sergeant came; a tall and ponderous man, slow of speech, persistent and given to repetitions. He spent a thoroughly enjoyable hour, notebook in hand, on a blank page of which he made a rough sketch of the room itself and the window through which it was discovered that the intruder had entered.
“And you miss nothing of value in any other part of the house, sir?” he enquired for the sixth or seventh time, prior to taking his leave.
“Nothing that I can trace,” Mr. Johnson replied. “You must remember that I am only a sub-tenant. Nothing of my own is missing, nor any of the familiar objects in the library.”
The sergeant returned the book to his pocket.