“How the devil do you know which is the breakfast-room?” cried Dick savagely.
“My duty to know, sir,” said the man, in the most unruffled way. “That’s the breakfast-room door, sir. Gent goes in through window—shuts it after him; and he didn’t come out.”
“How do you know?” cried Dick.
“Men watching back and front, sir,” said the private inquirer imperturbably.
“Well, Max, and if some one did, what then?” said Dick. “Suppose a policeman or some one comes to see one of the maids?”
“You had better turn him out,” said Max. “I should search the room.”
“That’s soon done,” said Dick, throwing open the door. “Here, John—a lighter.”
The boy took a taper to the hall lamp, and a couple of the burners in the breakfast-room being lit, they entered, to discover nothing.
“There,” said Dick, wiping the perspiration from his face, “you see there is no one here. I won’t have any more of your poll-prying about. You pay men to see things, Max, and they see them.”
“That’s an aspersion on my word, sir,” said the private inquirer sharply.