When I walked into the room the old man at the head of the table had risen and turned round to meet me. He was in evening dress—a short coat and black tie, as was the other, whom I called in my own mind the plump one. The third, the dark fellow, wore a blue serge suit and a soft white collar, and the colours of some club or school.
The old man’s manner was perfect. “Mr Hannay?” he said hesitatingly. “Did you wish to see me? One moment, you fellows, and I’ll rejoin you. We had better go to the smoking-room.”
Though I hadn’t an ounce of confidence in me, I forced myself to play the game. I pulled up a chair and sat down on it.
“I think we have met before,” I said, “and I guess you know my business.”
The light in the room was dim, but so far as I could see their faces, they played the part of mystification very well.
“Maybe, maybe,” said the old man. “I haven’t a very good memory, but I’m afraid you must tell me your errand, sir, for I really don’t know it.”
“Well, then,” I said, and all the time I seemed to myself to be talking pure foolishness—“I have come to tell you that the game’s up. I have a warrant for the arrest of you three gentlemen.”
“Arrest,” said the old man, and he looked really shocked. “Arrest! Good God, what for?”
“For the murder of Franklin Scudder in London on the 23rd day of last month.”
“I never heard the name before,” said the old man in a dazed voice.