Willitts was sitting with his elbows on his knees, his hands supporting his chin. The light from the open door behind him lay over his back, gilded the top of his smooth head and slanted across his cheek. He was not smoking and he was very still, facts noted by Mr. Larkin.
The detective stretched, yawned with a sleepy sound and said:
"So it's still a subject of popular curiosity, is it?"
"Yes, it is, but why should Mr. Price be?"
The valet's voice was low and quiet, holding a quality hard to define; the listener decided it was less uneasiness than resentment. After a moment's silence he spoke again, very softly, as if the words were self-communings:
"I'd like to know who the feller is."
Mr. Larkin's feet came down from the rail striking the floor with a thud. He sat up and looked at his friend:
"I can tell you. He's a detective, Gus O'Malley, employed by Whitney & Whitney."
Willitts' hands dropped and he squared round:
"A detective! That's it, is it? That accounts for the milk in the cocoanut. I might have guessed it. And what's he after me for?"