The night was warm, and through the open window came vague and fugitive sounds from the city that never sleeps; voices, the bells of passing hansoms and the clop, clop of the horses’ hoofs, the hum of distant traffic.
A little draught of wind suddenly stirred the papers on the desk before him; he turned, the door was open, and Freyberger stood before him, pale, haggard and bearing a black bag in his hand. Behind Freyberger stood a stranger.
“I knocked, sir,” said Freyberger.
“Ah! I was thinking. I suppose I did not hear you. Sit down—this gentleman——?”
“This gentleman’s name is Hellier, sir,” replied Freyberger. “I have ventured to bring him with me as he has assisted me in clearing up the Gyde case.”
“Ah! what’s that you say?”
“The Gyde case, sir. Also he has saved my life to-day—”
“Sit down, sit down,” said the chief, indicating chairs. “This is good, if it is as you say. I want details; but first tell me, is Sir Anthony Gyde alive?”
“No, sir, he was murdered in the Cottage on the Fells.”
“Good God! by whom?”