“Holy smoke!” spluttered the detective, after he had gazed at the apparition in stunned silence for a time. “What, under the sun, is it?”
Hugh laughed.
“Why, it’s the onion-eater; the intimidated rabbit,” he said delightedly. “How are you, little man?”
He extended an arm, and pulled him into the passage, where he stood spluttering indignantly.
“This is an outrage, sir,” he remarked; “a positive outrage.”
“Your legs undoubtedly are,” remarked Hugh, gazing at them dispassionately. “Put on some trousers—and get a move on. Now you”—he jerked the other man to his feet—“when does Lakington return?”
“Termorrow, sir,” stammered the other.
“Where is he now?”
The man hesitated for a moment, but the look in Hugh’s eyes galvanised him into speech.
“He’s after the old woman’s pearls, sir—the Duchess of Lampshire’s.”