“Against me!” cried the butler.
“Yes, against you.”
But there was no occasion for the note-book, for Preenham closed his lips and did not speak again.
“I think I will satisfy myself, constable, that all is safe here,” said Mr Girtle. “Gentlemen, will you come with me?”
He crossed the room, drew back the curtain over the portal and, taking out his keys, unlocked and pushed back the door, descending with the others into the vault-like chamber and examining the massive iron structure in the middle.
“It is quite safe,” he said, as the constable made the light of his lantern play here and there.
“But you have not looked in the safe,” said Artis, quickly.
“There is no need, sir. No one could have opened it, even with the keys, but Ramo or myself. Nothing has been touched.”
The policeman drew a long breath and they returned to the death-chamber, Mr Girtle carefully locking the iron door.
“I don’t think we shall want any detectives here, gentlemen,” said the constable; “I shall stay on the premises, but perhaps you will let the butler—no, I think one of you, perhaps—will be good enough to send in the first constable you see.”