Pape stepped back and waited until the heavy on-comer was about to enter the park, then sprang out and blocked the way.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
From surprise or alarm the man backed a step or two. “To—to the police station,” he answered nervously.
“Why didn’t you telephone? that would have been quicker. You seem in a hell of a hurry.”
“The wires are cut, sir.”
“Who are you anyway?” Pape’s demand was uttered with a note of authority.
“I am Jasper—the Sturgis’ butler. Mrs. Sturgis has sent me to bring a detective.”
With a short laugh Pape approved the born butler’s habit of subordination. “You’re in luck, Jasper. I’m the very man you’re looking for. Lead me to the case.”
His location—he well might have been coming from the Central Park station house—favored him. The Arsenal could be seen a few yards within the wall. Although he had no shield to show, nor named himself a sergeant of the Force, the butler seemed satisfied with the assertion and his own misconclusions. Dutifully, he led the way back to the house which he had quitted in such a hurry.
“This rushing about gets me in the wind, sir,” complained Jasper en route. “I fear I am growing a bit weighty. And what a comfort is the telephone. Things like that, sir, you never miss until they’re gone. Ah, sir, excitement like this is bad for the heart.”