“Why, is Cassavetti away, too?” I asked, looking up.
“I think he must be, sir, for I haven’t seen or heard anything of him. But I don’t do for him as I do for you and the other gents. He does for himself, and won’t let me have a key, or the run of his rooms. His tenancy’s up in a week or two, and a pretty state we shall find ’em in, I expect! We shan’t miss him like we miss you, sir. Shall you be long away this time?”
“Can’t say, Jenkins. It may be one month or six—or forever,” I added, remembering Carson’s fate.
“Oh, don’t say that, sir,” remonstrated Jenkins.
“I wonder if Mr. Cassavetti is out. I’d like to say good-bye to him,” I resumed presently. “Go up and ring, there’s a good chap, Jenkins. And if he’s there, you might ask him to come down.”
It struck me that I might at least ascertain from Cassavetti what he knew of Anne. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?
Jenkins departed on his errand, and half a minute later I heard a yell that brought me to my feet with a bound.
“Hello, what’s up?” I called, and rushed up the stairs, to meet Jenkins at the top, white and shaking.
“Look there, sir,” he stammered. “What is it? ’Twasn’t there this morning, when I turned the lights out, I’ll swear!”
He pointed to the door-sill, through which was oozing a sluggish, sinister-looking stream of dark red fluid.