Dolores had gone to a concert at the Assembly Rooms and we did not expect her back until between five and six.
It was when we had both paused in our conversation and sat with our eyes fixed on the leaping flames—the only illumination of the room—that a knock came at the door and a waiter entered.
"A gentleman to see you, sir," he said, addressing Don Juan.
"Who is it?" d'Alta asked.
"I think it is one of the police officers, sir," replied the man; "he gave the name of Bull."
"Ah! it's the inspector, evidently," commented the Don. "Show him up. I wonder whatever Inspector Bull can want," he continued, turning to me; "we only left him an hour or two ago."
The inspector came to answer for himself. The waiter threw open the door and he entered.
I saw at once that he had something of importance to communicate. His demeanour was that of the Duke of Wellington on the morning of Waterloo.
"Certain information of importance," he commenced, after we had greeted him, "having come to 'and this afternoon, sir, I thought it well to come round and see you immediate."
The inspector's eyes wandered round the apartment. There was a sideboard certainly; previous experience on former visits had, however, taught him to expect nothing from it. The foreign Don was evidently an advocate of temperance, like so many other foreigners who could not drink good, honest English beer—well seasoned with noxious chemicals.