“Hadn’t thought of that,” said Harborough. “Bit slow, I think. I’m sorry enough for them, God knows! And I think they know that whatever I once felt about their brother I—well, I got over it long since.”
Mr. Fransemmery gave his visitor a keen, sidelong glance. “I suppose Guy Markenmore really did treat you badly?” he suggested.
“Yes!” answered Harborough, with simple directness. “But—I’ve forgotten it. And—not all his fault, either. As I say—I’ve forgotten it.”
“Queer business, this murder!” remarked Mr. Fransemmery. “And now here’s a second mystery. You’ve heard, of course, about this Baron von Eckhardstein?”
“No,” replied Harborough. “I’ve heard nothing. I’ve been away from Greycloister since very early this morning until just now—came straight to see you as soon as I got back. What about von Eckhardstein?”
“Disappeared!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery. “Last night. Clean gone!—no one knows where.” He proceeded to give his guest a circumstantial account of the day’s doings, and of his own share in them. “What do you think of that?” he asked in conclusion. “Odd, isn’t it?”
“The whole affair’s odd,” asserted Harborough. “It looks to me as if—but, really, I think that’s impossible!”
“What’s impossible?” demanded Mr. Fransemmery.
“Well, I was thinking—I was going to say—it almost looks as though this might be a second murder!” answered Harborough diffidently. “I’ve been wondering—but, as I said, I’m a bit slow at the thinking game, sometimes—if von Eckhardstein wasn’t the man who turned up at the Sceptre at two o’clock in the morning? In that case——”
Mr. Fransemmery started.