Bray began to walk about the room, ignoring me.
“White asters; scarab pin; Homburg hat,” he detailed, pausing before the table where those strange exhibits lay.
A constable came forward carrying newspapers in his hand.
“What is it?” Bray asked.
“The Daily Mail, sir,” said the constable. “The issues of July twenty-seventh, twenty-eighth, twenty-ninth and thirtieth.”
Bray took the papers in his hand, glanced at them and tossed them contemptuously into a waste-basket. He turned to Walters.
“Sorry, sir,” said Walters; “but I was so taken aback! Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I’ll go at once—”
“No,” replied Bray sharply. “Never mind. I’ll attend to it—”
There was a knock at the door. Bray called “Come!” and a slender boy, frail but with a military bearing, entered.
“Hello, Walters!” he said, smiling. “What’s up? I-”