The Detective’s voice trailed into silence. He reached swiftly and wiped his hand over the frosted pane. He pressed his nose against the glass until it became white with cold. He jerked back his head.
“Quek!” he signaled from deep down in his throat. “Quek, Delaney! Open the door. Somebody is coming out of the house!”
Delaney twisted the handle. A breath of stinging air swept into the taxi’s heated space. Snow followed and drifted across the detectives’ knees. Both men strained in one position. Their eyes burned as they waited with grim-set lips.
A light shone from the lower entrance of the mansion. Its oblong brought out in bold-relief the details of the iron-grilled gates. Across this fine snow sifted. A man emerged. He closed the door. He opened the gates and staggered toward the Avenue’s curb. He stood, bare-headed in the night. His chin swung north and south with helpless motion. He fixed his eyes upon the waiting taxi, with a start of recognition. He came over the surface of the Avenue with faltering, bewildered steps.
“The butler!” snapped Drew. “That’s Stockbridge’s butler! What’s happened?”
“God only knows!” exclaimed Delaney.
Drew climbed over the operative and sprang to the curb. He charged around the rear of the taxi and brought up with a jerk before the startled servant.
“What is it?” he asked sharply.
The butler stammered an incoherent answer. His eyes wavered from the taxi to the mansion—then back again. They gripped to a dead-lock with the detective’s own.
“What happened?” exclaimed Drew.