"Show him in," said Myles, not looking up. "Wonder who it can be," he muttered, as Rondalina went out; "hang those fellows, they won't even let me have the morning to myself."
When the door opened he glanced up and saw that the new corner was not a friend, but a tall, grey man whom he did not know. Myles paused with his pen in his hand, and waited for his visitor to speak, looking at him interrogatively meanwhile.
Mr. Dowker--tor of course it was he--closed the door carefully, and advancing to the table, introduced himself in two words:
"Dowker--detective!"
If Myles looked haggard before, he looked still more so now. His face grew pale, and he shot an enquiring glance at his visitor, who stood looking mournfully at him. Then, throwing down his pen in an irritable manner, he arose to his feet.
"Well, Mr. Dowker?" he said a little nervously. "You want to see me."
"I do--very particularly," replied Dowker, coolly taking a seat, "and believe you can guess what it's about."
Myles drew his brows together, and shook his head. "No. I'm afraid I can't," he said coldly.
"The Jermyn Street murder."
Myles gave a kind of gasp, and turned away towards the mantel-piece, ostensibly to fill his pipe, but in reality to conceal his agitation.