“No, I don’t think it was. But I’ve heard it in this house.”
“A servant—the valet?”
“No! No, Mr. Drew, it wasn’t the valet’s voice. It was whispering and consumptive. It squeaked. It sounded like a little boy’s voice.”
“How about that trouble-man?” Drew advanced with keen steps. He felt that he was very close to the truth.
“It might have been. Only—only, Mr. Drew, it was younger—thinner—squeakier. It was a terrible voice. It rings and rings in my ears. It was so sure!”
“Ump!” declared Drew with clenched fists. “It won’t be so sure,” he said, squaring his jaw. “It won’t be near so sure, next time. I think it was that trouble-man you heard. Don’t you remember anything he said when he was in the house, for comparison?”
“I just heard him say—I heard him say that the connections, I think he called them, were all right. Then he went away, Mr. Drew.”
“Did his voice squeak then?”
“It was rather low—like a boy’s or a girl’s. He seemed too polite. He had his cap in his hand.” Loris stopped speaking and stood erect. She arranged her gown and glanced down at Nichols. “I feel stronger,” she said bravely. “I wonder what became of that tea?”
Drew stepped into the writing-room and found the tea-pot upon its side. He poured from this a cup of tea which he carried to Nichols. “Just taste it,” he ordered. “I want to be sure it isn’t doped or anything like that. That’s it. Just a small swallow. It’s all right, isn’t it? It isn’t bitter?”