Godfrey rang the bell, and, when the butler appeared in answer to it, bade him tell his man that he intended going up to London at once, and that he wanted his bag prepared without a moment’s delay. Then, with a fine touch of sarcasm, he added: “Tell him also that I shall not require my dress clothes.”
The detective smiled grimly. It was a joke he could appreciate; he also liked the other’s pluck in being able to jest at such a time.
“That’s the thing with these swells,” he said to himself. “They never know when they’re beaten.”
“In the meantime,” said Godfrey, “I suppose you will permit me to say good-bye to my family? I will give you my word, if you deem it necessary, that I will make no attempt to escape.”
“I will trust you, sir,” said the man. “I know it’s hard lines on you, and I want to make it as pleasant for you as I can, provided, of course, you don’t get me into hot water.”
“I will endeavour not to do that,” said Godfrey. “And now I’ll go to the drawing-room. If you think it necessary you can wait in the hall.”
“No, sir, thank you. I am quite comfortable here,” said the man; “but I shouldn’t make the interview longer than I could help if I were you. These things are always a bit trying for the ladies. I know it, because I’ve seen it so often.”
Having ordered a glass of brandy and water for him, the man’s favourite tipple, and handing him an illustrated paper, Godfrey left him and returned to the drawing-room. He had an agonizing part to play, and he wanted to spare his women folk as much pain as possible. As he entered the room they looked up at him with startled faces.
“What is it, Godfrey? What is it?” asked his mother, while the two girls waited for him to speak.
“It is a man from London who has come down to see me with regard to the murder,” Godfrey began, scarcely knowing how to break the news to them. “It appears that the authorities are desirous of seeing me prior to the inquest to-morrow, and so I am going up to-night.”