“What, in God's name, do you mean by your customers and overcharges?” shrieked Major Brown, whose keen feminine nature, steady in pain or danger, became almost hysterical in the presence of a long and exasperating mystery. “Who are you? I've never seen you or your insolent tomfool bills. I know one of your cursed brutes tried to choke me—”
“Mad,” said Northover, gazing blankly round; “all of them mad. I didn't know they travelled in quartettes.”
“Enough of this prevarication,” said Rupert; “your crimes are discovered. A policeman is stationed at the corner of the court. Though only a private detective myself, I will take the responsibility of telling you that anything you say—”
“Mad,” repeated Northover, with a weary air.
And at this moment, for the first time, there struck in among them the strange, sleepy voice of Basil Grant.
“Major Brown,” he said, “may I ask you a question?”
The Major turned his head with an increased bewilderment.
“You?” he cried; “certainly, Mr Grant.”
“Can you tell me,” said the mystic, with sunken head and lowering brow, as he traced a pattern in the dust with his sword-stick, “can you tell me what was the name of the man who lived in your house before you?”
The unhappy Major was only faintly more disturbed by this last and futile irrelevancy, and he answered vaguely: