“I mean that the man who is now on the stairs is a policeman or has worn the uniform. If he stops at your door——”
The heavy tread ceased. Then came the authoritative knock.
“Wait,” muttered Carrados, laying his hand impressively on Straithwaite’s tremulous arm. “I may recognize the voice.”
They heard the servant pass along the hall and the door unlatched; then caught the jumble of a gruff inquiry.
“Inspector Beedel of Scotland Yard!” The servant repassed their door on her way to the drawing-room. “It is no good disguising the fact from you, Mr Straithwaite, that you may no longer be at liberty. But I am. Is there anything you wish done?”
There was no time for deliberation. Straithwaite was indeed between the unenviable alternatives of the familiar proverb, but, to do him justice, his voice had lost scarcely a ripple of its usual sang-froid.
“Thanks,” he replied, taking a small stamped and addressed parcel from his pocket, “you might drop this into some obscure pillar-box, if you will.”
“The Markham necklace?”
“Exactly. I was going out to post it when you came.”
“I am sure you were.”