“J. G. Walton?” asked Mr. Boon.
“Yes.”
“I didn't know he was educated in England,” said Mr. Boon in a tone that implied he knew Mr. Walton well.
“Didn't you?” said the colonel, more sharply than the occasion warranted.
“But then, we never discussed the subject,” apologized the jeweler.
“Do you know the house?”
“Yes. I've been in it several times. I understood Mr. Walton was in Florida and had rented his residence for the winter.”
“I don't know a bally thing about his private affairs,” said the colonel, coldly; “but I do know the duke intended to visit him, and I've been told to go there.”
It occurred to the store detective that if the Englishman was rude to Mr. Boon it was altogether likely the duke treated his private secretary as a servant. It gave the detective pleasure to imagine this, for whenever the colonel had looked at Mr. Donnelly it was with the casual indifference with which men look at chairs or cobblestones. This made T. Donnelly feel that he was not alive, and he disliked the aristocratic undertaker.
The motor turned into Fifth Avenue, sped northward, and halted before a house. Mr. Boon recognized Mr. Walton's residence.