The same young footman whom Snell had questioned hurried forward and detained Thomson for a moment, extending a salver with a heap of letters.
“These have just come by post, Mr. Thomson. Hadn’t you better take them?”
Thomson did so mechanically, and followed Lord Warrington, who turned to him the instant the door was closed.
“This is an awful business, Thomson! Where’s Sir Robert?”
“In bed, and at death’s door, my lord. They telephoned the news to him about my lady, and he had a kind of stroke.”
“Good Heavens! But what does it all mean, man? What was Lady Rawson doing out there in the suburbs—and murdered in a post office telephone booth, of all places in the world!”
He waved an evening paper he was carrying, and Thomson glanced at it dully.
“I don’t know anything about it, my lord, except just that my lady was murdered. The Scotland Yard detective told me that, but I didn’t seem to grasp it at the time; I was too distressed about my master, and I’ve been with him ever since.”
“A detective? Did he bring the news?”
“Oh, no, my lord, it was through the telephone. He was here about those papers that are missing——”