"Now I guess the fat is in the fire," Christabel said.
Henson dropped into a chair and groaned. Lord Littimer, elegantly attired in a suit of silk pyjamas and carrying a revolver in his hand, came coolly down the corridor. A curious servant or two would have followed, but he waved them back crisply.
"Miss Lee," he said, with a faint, sarcastic emphasis, "and my dear friend and relative, Reginald Henson—Reginald, the future owner of Littimer Castle!"
"So he told me, but I wouldn't believe him," said Christabel.
"It is a cynical age," Littimer remarked. "Reginald, what does this mean?"
Henson shook his head uneasily.
"The young lady persisted in taking me for a burglar," he groaned.
"And why not?" Christabel demanded. "I was just going to bed when I heard voices in the forecourt below and footsteps creeping along. I came into the corridor with my revolver. Presently one of the men climbed up the ivy and got into the corridor. I covered him with my revolver and fairly drove him into a bedroom and locked him in."
"So you killed with both barrels?" Littimer cried, with infinite enjoyment.
"Then the other one came. He came to steal the Rembrandt."