“Been out on the spree,” was Armadale’s silent inference; for the Inspector was inclined to take a low view of humanity in general, and he put his own interpretation on Cecil’s looks.
Sir Clinton, in a few rapid sentences, apprised Cecil of the facts of the case.
“I’d heard some of that before, you know,” Cecil admitted. “Maurice’s disappearance seems to have caused a bit of a stir. I can’t say he’s greatly missed for the sake of his personality; but naturally it’s disturbing to have a brother mislaid about the place.”
“Very irksome, of course,” agreed Sir Clinton, with a faint parody of Cecil’s detached air.
Cecil seemed to think that the conversation had come to a deadlock, since the Chief Constable made no effort to continue.
“Well, what about it?” he demanded. “I haven’t got Maurice concealed anywhere about my person, you know.”
He elaborately felt in an empty jacket pocket, ending by turning it inside out.
“No,” he pointed out, “he isn’t there. In fact, I’m almost certain I haven’t got him anywhere in this suit.”
Cecil’s studied insolence seemed to escape Sir Clinton’s notice.
“There was a celebrated historical character who said something of the same sort once upon a time. ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ you remember that?”