"It has indeed, sir," said the butler, and two tears gathered upon his lower lids, hung pendulous for a second, then raced one another down either side of his nose. It was the first sympathetic word the old man had heard since the police had arrived, insatiable for facts.
"Sit down," said Malcolm Sage, without looking up, "I shall not keep you many minutes." His tone was that one might adopt to a child.
The old man obeyed, seating himself upon the edge of the chair, one hand still placed upon the other.
"You mustn't think because the police ask a lot of questions that they mean to be unkind," said Malcolm Sage.
"I—I believe they think I did it," the old man quavered, "and—and
I'd have done anything——"
His voice broke, the tears coursing down his colourless cheeks.
"I want you to try to help me find out who did kill your master," continued Malcolm Sage, in the same tone, "and you can do that by answering my questions."
There was no restless movement of fingers now. The hard, keen look had left his eyes, and his whole attention seemed to be concentrated upon soothing the old man before him.
With an obvious effort the butler strove to control himself.
"Did the professor ever have visitors at his laboratory?"