"Sure?" he grated. "By God, Jukey——"
The Duke turned his head never so slightly. Bill followed the direction of his eyes, then he dropped his pistol like a hot coal and threw up his hands. At an upper window of the Duke's house stood the watchful Hank. In the corner of the American's mouth was a cigar, in his hands was a Winchester rifle and its business-like muzzle covered Bill unwaveringly, as it had for the past ten minutes.
V
All this happened in Brockley, S.E. on one bright autumn morning whilst Kymott Crescent (exclusive of numbers 64 and 66) pursued its placid course. Whilst milkmen yelled in the streets and neat butcher's carts stood waiting at servants' entrances, whilst Mrs. Coyter practised most assiduously the pianoforte solo that was against her name in the programme of the evening, and Mr. Roderick Nape paced the concrete floor of his study delivering to an imaginary audience a monologue (specially written by a friend not unconnected with The Lewisham Borough News) entitled "The Murder of Fairleigh Grange."
That rehearsal will ever be remembered by Mr. Roderick Nape, because it was whilst he was in the middle of it that there came to him his First Case.
In this monologue, the character, a detective of supernatural perception, is engaged in hounding down a clever and ruthless criminal. Mr. Roderick Nape had got to the part where an "agony" in the Morning Post had aroused the suspicion of the detective genius. Perhaps it would be best to give the extract.
"Can it be Hubert Wallingford? No, perish the thought! Yet—come let me read the paper again (takes newspaper cutting from his pocket and reads)—
'To whom it may concern: information regarding P.L. is anxiously awaited by H.W.'
Can it be Hubert! (sombrely)—It would seem a voice from the grave that says——"
"The gent from 66 wants to see you, sir."
Mr. Nape stopped short and faced the diminutive maid of all work.
"Is it a case? he asked severely.
"I shouldn't wonder, sir," replied the cheerful little girl.