“Have you—?” He could not voice the rest of the question but McCarty replied briskly:
“We’ve several possibilities, Trafford, and we’re following every last one of ’em up. No news is good news just now. Is Mrs. Goddard awake yet, do you know?”
“Her maid told me when I inquired a few minutes ago that she was stirring. I’ll go and see.” The young tutor turned dispiritedly away. “You’ll find Mr. Goddard in the smoking-room at the rear on the Avenue side.”
In dimensions and ponderous style of furnishing the smoking-room resembled a club lounge rather than a private apartment and it was a full minute before they descried Eustace Goddard’s rotund figure relaxed in the depths of a huge leather armchair. He was apparently asleep but on their approach he opened widely staring eyes upon them and sprang up with an inarticulate cry.
“We’ve not located your son yet, Mr. Goddard,” McCarty spoke quickly before the father could frame words. “We know what every minute means to you and ’tis for that we’re going to bring the inspector and some of his other men into it. I can promise you there’ll be no publicity through us.”
“By God, McCarty, they can blazon it in every paper in the land if it will bring our boy back to us!” Goddard cried brokenly. “The horror of this night has made everything else unimportant! You mean you—you’ve failed?”
“Not exactly, sir, but there are only the two of us now and ’twill save time if others take up some of the clues we’ve got,” McCarty explained.
“There’s the telephone,” Goddard waved a shaking hand toward a stand half concealed behind a lacquered screen. “Get the whole department if you need it. I’ll offer any reward you suggest—fifty thousand? A hundred?”
“We’ll settle that when the inspector comes.” McCarty moved to the screen and took up the receiver, and Dennis cleared his throat.
“How many doors are there to this house?”