“Beyond the pale!” said Nichols. “It’s too bad this man Cuthbert didn’t exercise one-tenth of his genius in perfecting war inventions. He’d have helped us a lot.”
Drew nodded and strode to the curtains at a side window. He peered out, rubbed the frosted panes, and pressed his nose against the glass.
“Stopped snowing!” he exclaimed, coming back and clasping Delaney’s arm. “You hurry downstairs and telephone Fosdick that we are waiting for him. Tell him to notify the coroner that there’s a subject here which will interest him. We’ll not explain everything to either the coroner or Fosdick. No one save us shall know the secret of the receiver.”
“Delaney,” said Nichols, as the big operative started through the portières. “Mr. Delaney.”
“Yes!” boomed back through the room.
“Ask the Commissioner if he will release Miss Stockbridge’s servants. It was an outrage.”
“That’s right!” exclaimed Drew, striding to the portières. “Tell him I said so, Delaney. Tell him just what you think. Give it to him strong! He bungled and he don’t deserve a bit of sympathy.”
“Mr. Drew?”
The detective wheeled on one heel and glanced back at Loris, who had risen and was standing with her arm linked within Nichols’. “Mr. Drew,” she repeated with slow insistence, “won’t you have another cup of tea before you go?”
“That I will, Miss Stockbridge. We three shall drink to the end of the case. Have you asked all the questions you want to? I want to forget this night as soon as possible. You were too close to death to suit me.”