For several minutes he remained inside, while French, growing more and more anxious every second, remained pacing impatiently up and down. Then Carter reappeared, and without any attempt at secrecy beckoned to French.
“What is it?” the latter whispered, sharply, as he joined the sergeant on the doorstep. “Anything wrong?”
“I’m afraid so, sir. We can’t make him hear.”
French swore. A wave of misgiving swept over him. Why in Heaven’s name hadn’t he arrested the man last night when he had the chance? He pushed into the house to meet an anxious-looking landlady in the hall.
“I am Inspector French of Scotland Yard,” he explained, quickly. “Where is Mr. Pyke?”
“Lawks!” said the landlady, recognising her former visitor. “Are you police? And I thinking you were a friend of Mr. Pyke’s all the time.”
“Yes, madam, I am a police officer and I want to see Mr. Pyke at once. Where is he?”
The anxious look returned to the woman’s face.
“He’s in his room,” she explained. “But he’s not had his breakfast and he won’t answer my knocking. He said last night that he had a chill and that he wouldn’t get up this morning, and for me not to disturb him. But that’s no reason why he shouldn’t answer a knock.”
“Which is his room?” said French, grimly. This should be a lesson to him to avoid his confounded trick of waiting till he was sure. If this man had slipped through his hands, any chance of that chief inspectorship was gone—if his job itself remained.