They both started as the front door bell sounded.
“I’ll go,” said Grace, rising, “I expect it is my father.”
It was not the professor, but a small, spare, very neatly dressed old man, whom at first she did not recognize.
“Mrs. Carling?” he asked. “I must introduce myself, madam. My name is Thomson.”
She knew him then, though she had only seen him once previously, when he had given evidence at the police court on the return of the stolen papers to his master, Sir Robert Rawson.
“Mr. Thomson!” she exclaimed. “You—you have come from Sir Robert Rawson?”
“Not precisely, madam; though I am in Sir Robert’s service. I came on my own account to beg the favour of a few minutes’ conversation.”
“Certainly. Do come in,” she said, her pulses fluttered with the wild hope that this old servant, whom Roger so liked and trusted, might have something of importance to communicate.
As he followed her through the little hall he glanced with an expression of surprise at a hat and coat hanging there, which he recognized as Roger’s; at several walking-sticks in a rack, at a sling of golf clubs in the corner, and, as he entered the dining-room, looked across at once at the writing-table by the window, and the little table with pipe-rack, tobacco jar, and match stand beside it.
“Excuse me, madam,” he said quickly, “but is Mr. Carling at home—has he been released?”