Sir Arthur Hilton stood by a long window with the white light of a western sky reflected across his furrowed face like the reaching hand of a specter.
“You’re Fay?” he said as the Scotland Yard man backed into the shadow of an inner room.
“Yes. Chester Fay—Mr. George Mott, the reformer’s friend.”
“Good—good and bad! There’s the old Nick to pay. Putney Stephney of Downing Street—a King’s greyhound—with thirty thousand pounds in American banknotes, was found dead on top of a goods-train at Poughkeepsie this morning.”
Fay pulled out a cigarette.
“Murdered!” declared Hilton with a rising voice. “Killed in cold blood somewhere between the steamer dock at West Street and—and Poughkeepsie.”
Fay dragged on the cigarette, thrust his hands into his pockets and leaned forward. His eyes hardened slightly. They fastened within the steady stare of Sir Arthur’s own.
“Facts are these,” resumed the British representative. “Stephney had landed at the dock at ten-twenty last night. Was seen by two of the steamship company’s detectives who were watching all embarking passengers.”
“Was that the Carpathia?” asked Fay.