“I was wondering who you were,” Reggie murmured.
The little man swung round. “We’ll have the room cleared, inspector,” he said.
The detective inspector, who looked more like a policeman than seemed possible, strode heavily forward. “Hope you’re not meaning to give trouble, doctor,” he frowned. “Or I’ll have to take steps.”
“Fancy!” Reggie said. “Well, look where you’re going.” He walked across to the window and looked out at the roses.
“Clear out, please.” The inspector followed him.
“Zeal, all zeal,” Reggie murmured, and went.
There were two doors to the room. He did not use that by which they had come, but the other. He happened to know that it opened into Birdie Bolton’s bedroom.
There was some one in the bedroom. A startled dark face peeped round the screen by the bed. It belonged to a smart lady’s maid.
“Dear me, I thought this was the passage,” Reggie said.
“It is Miss Bolton’s bedroom—poor Miss Bolton.” The maid had a slight foreign accent.