“Excuse me; Mr. Stott, I believe?”
“That is my name. I haven’t the pleasure—”
“My name is Carver—I am an Inspector of Police, and I want you to tell me something about what was seen outside of Mayfield, both before and after the murder.”
Mr. Stott’s face fell.
“That servant of mine has been talking,” he said annoyed. “I knew she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”
“I know nothing about your servant, sir,” said Carver, sadly, “but I have been sitting in Toby’s for the past three days and I have heard quite a lot. It sounded to me almost as if you were the principal speaker on the subject, but maybe I was mistaken.”
“I shall say nothing,” said Mr. Stott firmly, and the detective sighed.
“I shouldn’t hurry to make up my mind on that subject if I were you,” he said, “it is certain to be a difficult business explaining to the Public Prosecutor why you have kept silence so long—it looks very suspicious, you know, Mr. Stott.”
Mr. Stott was aghast.
“Suspicious—me—Good heavens! Come to my office, Mr. Carver—suspicious! I knew I should be dragged into it! I’ll fire Eline tonight!”