“I’ll call you, sir; it may be some time getting through.”
“All right. I’ll be in the lounge.”
But within a couple of minutes the summons came, and, hastily finishing his drink, he hurried to the booth.
Thomson’s voice sounded, civil, precise, distinct, as usual. At the telephone as in most other respects Sir Robert’s trusted attendant was admirable, unimpeachable.
“Hullo, Thomson! Carling speaking. I’ve just arrived at Dover and seen the awful news. Where is Sir Robert?”
“In bed, sir, and still unconscious, though the doctors say that is all the better under the circumstances. In fact, I believe he is under an opiate. He had a sort of stroke, sir, when he heard—by telephone—of her ladyship’s death.”
“How on earth did it happen—the—the murder I mean? I’ve only seen the bare announcement.”
“In a ’phone booth, sir. If I may be permitted to state an opinion” (agitated though he was, Roger smiled at the formal phraseology, so entirely characteristic of old Thomson), “her ladyship was followed by someone who imagined she had valuables in her bag—a large and very handsome one—struck her down, and then finding those papers in it, and not knowing how to get rid of them, just put them into a post box, so then they came back to Sir Robert——”
“What! What papers?” Roger shouted into the transmitter, scarcely able to believe he had heard aright. “Not those we were searching for this morning?”
“The same, I understand, sir. They were delivered, surcharged, by the five o’clock post, and as Lord Warrington happened to be here, inquiring for Sir Robert, I made bold to give them to his lordship, who has taken charge of them.”