"Come my man, what's your name?" Lawrence panted.
"My name, sir," said the other coolly and clearly, "is Mr. Garrett Charlton, the owner of this house. And who are you?"
[CHAPTER XVI.]
MR. CHARLTON SPEAKS.
For once in his life Lawrence was utterly taken aback. He could do no more than stammer out an apology and assure the stern dark-eyed stranger that nothing in the way of a liberty was intended.
"You see, I have found something out," he said. "I rather hoped--indeed, I have still hopes--that the culprit----"
"What on earth are you talking about?" Charlton asked impatiently.
"But, surely, my dear sir, the tragedy that took place here so recently----"
"So recently! Ah, this is a veritable house of tragedies. I must get you to explain. I have come here direct from Paris to get certain papers. Put the gas out and come into the dining-room where the shutters are up. We don't want the police fussing about. You can tell me everything. If I don't make a mistake you are Mr. Gilbert Lawrence, the novelist."