"No indeed, but the clue now leads away from Geralton."
"Clue? What clue?" Cyril found it difficult to control the tremor in his voice.
"If you'll excuse me, my lord, I had better keep my suppositions to myself till I am able to verify them."
The man suspected him! But why? What had he discovered? Cyril felt he could not let him go before he had ascertained exactly what he had to fear. It was so awful, this fighting in the dark.
"If you have half an hour to spare, come to my rooms. They are only a few doors away." Cyril was convinced that the Inspector knew where he was staying and had been lying in wait for him. He thought it best to pretend that he felt above suspicion.
"Thank you, my lord."
A few minutes later they were sitting before a blazing fire, the Inspector puffing luxuriously at a cigar and sipping from time to time a glass of whiskey and soda which Peter had reluctantly placed at his elbow. Peter, as he himself would have put it, "did not hold with the police," and thought his master was sadly demeaning himself by fraternising with a member of that calling.
"I quite understand your reluctance to talk about a case," said Cyril, reverting at once to the subject he had in mind; "but as this one so nearly concerns my family and consequently myself, I think I have a right to your confidence. I am most anxious to know what you have discovered. This mystery is weighing on me. I assure you, you can rely on my discretion."
"Well, my lord, it's a bit unprofessional, but seeing it's you, I don't mind if I do. It's the newspaper men, I am afraid of."
"I shall not mention what you tell me to any one except possibly to one friend," Cyril hastily assured him.