“Very curious.” Mr. Todmorden recognized the urgent necessity for a normal voice. “Yes; very curious.” He must talk—say something! “By the way, inspector, I’ve been thinking about that reward. I’ve decided to triple it. I—I am determined to catch the scoundrel.”
“Very kind of you, sir. I hope we shall ask you for the cheque. We’re on the road, anyway. We’ve only got to find out where those pyjamas came from, and, quite likely, we shall get on his track.”
“Yes, yes, quite so.” Would the interview never end? Mr. Todmorden agonized.
“If we can only find some buttons like this we can make a start. There are differences even in pyjama buttons, you know, sir. I have compared it with mine, but it doesn’t tally. Would you mind comparing it with yours?”
Mr. Todmorden stared at him, speechless.
“Would you mind comparing it with yours, sir? We must not neglect any chance of getting a clue. Allow me!”
He stepped quickly to the old gentleman and flung aside his dressing-gown. The buttons, with the hanging thread of their missing fellow, were revealed. Triumph flashed in the inspector’s face.
“James Henry Todmorden, I——”
Mr. Todmorden jumped back from his grasp. With a sharp cry he drew his hand swiftly from his pocket. There was a report, and he dropped to the floor.
The inspector looked at his lifeless body.