“I always knew this would happen,” he said aloud with brazen blandness. “My poor old master made game of me for wearing black; but I always said I should be ready for his funeral.”
And he made a momentary movement with his two dark-gloved hands.
“Sergeant,” said Inspector Gilder, eyeing the black hands with wrath, “aren’t you putting the bracelets on this fellow; he looks pretty dangerous.”
“Well, sir,” said the sergeant, with the same odd look of wonder, “I don’t know that we can.”
“What do you mean?” asked the other sharply. “Haven’t you arrested him?”
A faint scorn widened the slit-like mouth, and the whistle of an approaching train seemed oddly to echo the mockery.
“We arrested him,” replied the sergeant gravely, “just as he was coming out of the police station at Highgate, where he had deposited all his master’s money in the care of Inspector Robinson.”
Gilder looked at the man-servant in utter amazement. “Why on earth did you do that?” he asked of Magnus.
“To keep it safe from the criminal, of course,” replied that person placidly.
“Surely,” said Gilder, “Sir Aaron’s money might have been safely left with Sir Aaron’s family.”