“That, Mr. Brooklyn, is not the occasion to which I was referring. You came back to Liskeard House still later on Tuesday evening.”
Walter Brooklyn glared at the inspector. “Young man,” he said, “I will thank you not to tell me where I was. I know that for myself.”
“You admit, then, that you came back to the house.”
“I admit nothing of the sort. I was not in the house at all. I’ve told you already that I did not go there.”
The inspector discharged his bombshell. “Then how did it occur that you rang up the Sanctum Club from Liskeard House at 11.30 on Tuesday evening?”
This was too much for Walter Brooklyn. “Infernal impudence,” he said. “I don’t know where you picked up these cock-and-bull stories. I did not ring up the Sanctum from Liskeard House, because I was not there. And now I’ve had enough of your questions, and you can go.” And he strode to the door and held it open. “Get out,” he said.
The inspector picked up his hat. “I had some further questions to ask you,” he said. “Perhaps another time I shall find you in a better mood. Good evening.” And he left the room as hastily as he could without compromising his dignity, not quite certain whether Walter Brooklyn would complete the performance by throwing him downstairs. Brooklyn, however, merely relieved his feelings by slamming the door.
In the hall the inspector found the porter. “Had a pleasant interview?” asked the latter, familiar with Walter Brooklyn’s ways.
“Not exactly pleasant, but decidedly illuminating,” said the inspector, as he went upon his way.