If Alan had ventured a comment just then, it would have been, “you are not what I like.” But he did not speak; and Mr. Grip, having paused for a remark and hearing none, now glanced up.
“Is that your pleasure, Mr. Warburton?”
A certain touch of acidity in the tone, recalls Alan to a sense of his position. This man before him is a man of business, a detective highly recommended by the Chief of Police, and he needs his services. He moves a step nearer the table and begins.
“That is what I—”
“Precisely,” breaks in Mr. Grip. “Now, then,” referring to papers, “first—sit down, won’t you? it’s more sociable.”
And Alan puts his aristocracy in his pocket and sits down opposite the dazzling necktie.
“Now then,” recommences Mr. Grip, “I’ve got the facts in the case.”
“You have?”
“Facts in case; yes.” And he takes up the memoranda, reading therefrom:
“Lost child; daughter of Archibald Warburton; only daughter.” Then, turning his eyes upon Alan: “Father killed by shock, I’m told; sad—very.”