Drew rose from the chair. His left hand went out. His fingers clasped Harry Nichols’ shoulder with a fatherly pressure.
“I’m going now,” he said. “I’ll leave the gun with you. If the police want it, give it to them. Perhaps they will never hear of it. I doubt if more than one or two servants saw it in Miss Loris’ hand when she came into the library. They may not tell Fosdick. He’ll try to rough-shod over them. He may arrest the entire household—including Loris. That’s his way. It’s effective, but it’s not my way. Now is there anything that you want to say to me which will clear your mind of this affair?”
Nichols glanced from Drew’s clean-cut face. His eyes rested upon the telephone. “I’m going to call her up presently,” he said. “I’ll talk with her. I’ll tell her that you were here—that you left the little revolver—that you stand ready to swear it was clean and fully loaded. Then, when I hear what she has to say about everything, I shall call you up. Is that satisfactory, Mr. Drew?”
The detective turned the revolver in his palm and pressed it forward. “Take it,” said he, “and keep it under cover. I’m off with Mr. Delaney. Thanks for the club soda.”
“And the cigar,” added the big operative as he opened the door.
Drew hesitated on the landing. He turned and went back. Nichols stood by the banisters. The soft light from inside clear-cut the officer’s figure like a statue.
“You can do me a favor,” said the detective in a whisper. “A damn nice little favor.”
“What is it?”
“Have you an extra photo of the girl-in-the-case. One that’s laying around somewhere. I don’t mean the one on the mantel.”
“What do you want it for?”