“It’s a ‘he,’ ” replied Broad calmly, “and I hope I’ll be excused answering your question. I had been in the house an hour when you arrived—I was in the back room, which is empty, by the way. You scared me. I heard you come in and thought it was old St. Nicholas of the Whiskers. Especially when I saw the light go on. I’d had it on when you opened the scullery door—I left that unfastened, by the way. Didn’t want to stop my bolt hole. Well, what do you think?”
“About Maitland?”
“Eccentric, eh? You don’t know how eccentric!”
As the car stopped before the door of Caverley House, Elk broke a long silence.
“What are you, Mr. Broad?”
“I’ll give you ten guesses,” said the other cheerfully as they got out.
“Secret Service man,” suggested Elk promptly.
“Wrong—you mean U.S.? No, you’re wrong. I’m a private detective who makes a hobby of studying the criminal classes—will you come up and have a drink?”
“I will come up, but I won’t drink,” said Elk virtuously, “not if you offer gin and orange. That visit to the United States has spoilt my digestion.”
Broad was fitting a key in the lock of his flat, when a strange cold sensation ran down the spine of the detective, and he laid his hand on the American’s arm.