“Come down and I will tell you.”
“I’ve gone to bed for the night. See me in the morning.”
“I’ll see you now,” said Michael firmly. “I have a warrant to search this house.”
He had no such warrant, but only because he had not asked for one.
The man’s head was hastily withdrawn, the window slammed down, and such a long interval passed that Michael thought that the baronet intended denying him admission. This view, however, was wrong. At the end of a dreary period of waiting the door was opened, and, in the light of the hall lamp, Sir Gregory Penne presented an extraordinary appearance.
He was fully dressed: around his waist were belted two heavy revolvers, but this fact Michael did not immediately notice. The man’s head was swathed in bandages; only one eye was visible; his left arm was stiff with a surgical dressing, and he limped as he walked.
“I’ve had an accident,” he said gruffly.
“It looks a pretty bad one,” said Michael, observing him narrowly.
“I don’t want to talk here: come into my room,” growled the man.
In Sir Gregory’s library there were signs of a struggle. A long mirror which hung on one of the walls was shattered to pieces; and, looking up, Michael saw that one of the two swords was missing.