"Lord Wilmersley."
The effect was electrical. Four men who had been deep in conversation turned and stared open-mouthed at Cyril, and one of them, a short fat man in clerical dress, dropped his teacup in his agitation.
"Who?" bellowed a tall, florid old gentleman.
The butler, secretly delighted at having produced such a sensation, closed the door discreetly after him.
"I don't wonder you are surprised to see me. You thought I was with my regiment."
"So you're the little shaver I knew as a boy? Well, you've grown a bit since then. Hah, hah." Then, recollecting the solemnity of the occasion, he subdued his voice. "I'm Twombley, friend of your father's, you know, and this is Mr. James, your vicar, and this is Mr. Tinker, the coroner, and this is Judson, celebrated detective, you know. I sent for him. Hope you approve? Terrible business, what?"
"It has been a great shock to me, and I am very glad to have Judson's assistance," replied Cyril, casting a searching and apprehensive glance at the detective.
He was a small, clean-shaven man with short, grey hair, grey eyebrows, grey complexion, dressed in a grey tweed suit. His features were peculiarly indefinite. His half-closed eyes, lying in the shadow of the overhanging brows, were fringed with light eyelashes and gave no accent to his expressionless face.
At all events, thought Cyril, he doesn't look very alarming, but then, you never can tell.
"I must condole with you on the unexpected loss of a relative, who was in every way an honour to his name and his position," said the vicar, holding out a podgy hand.