“All right. Tell him I’ll be down presently.”
“Please, sir, he says he can’t wait. It’s very urgent.” Discovery? No! Impossible—as yet! He kept a tremor out of his voice by an effort.
“Show him into my dressing-room.”
Mr. Todmorden thought swiftly for a vivid second. That smear of paint must be concealed. He slipped on a dressing-gown. Then he caught sight of his revolver on the table, and, on a blind impulse, dropped it into his pocket. He took a long breath. Now—was there anything about him suspicious? He opened his dressing-gown and surveyed himself in the mirror. Yes!—there was a button gone from his pyjama-jacket! Where had he lost that button? He would have given anything for certainty. But he must not keep the police waiting. That would look strange. He girdled his gown about him and went into the dressing-room.
The chief inspector awaited him. A sharp expression of surprise came into the officer’s face.
“I have had a bad night, inspector,” said the old gentleman, noticing the look and feeling his haggard appearance needed explanation.
The inspector condoled with him.
“I am pleased to say we have found a slight clue to the criminal, Mr. Todmorden,” he said, looking again sharply at the old gentleman. Mr. Todmorden felt he quailed under the glance. “It’s a button. And, the curious thing is, it is a pyjama button.”
“Yes?” Mr. Todmorden’s mouth went dry.
“Funny wear for a burglar—pyjamas,” commented the inspector. “Don’t you think so, sir?”