"'Ow do you know so much about 'im?"
Mr. Larkin's answer came out of the shadow with businesslike promptness:
"Because I'm a detective myself."
For a moment the valet's face seemed to set, lose its flesh and blood mobility and harden into something stony, its lines fixed, vitality suspended,—a vacuous, staring mask. Then life came back to it, broke its iciness, and flooded it with a frank, almost ludicrous astonishment.
"You—you!" he stammered out, "and me never so much as thinking it! Would any one, I'm asking you? Would—" he stopped, his amazement gone, a sudden belligerent fierceness taking its place, "And are you after Mr. Price too?"
Mr. Larkin laughed:
"I'm after no one at this stage. I'm only assembling data. If O'Malley's got to the point of finding a suspect he's far ahead of me."
Willitts' excitement instantly subsided; his answer showed a hurried urgence:
"No, no—he didn't say anything one could take 'old of—only a few questions. And it's maybe all in my feelings. I couldn't bear a person to think evil of Mr. Price. It 'urts me; I'd be sensitive; I might see it if it wasn't there."
"If you got that impression I guess it was there."