And he resumes his reading. “Relatives: Alan Warburton, uncle; fond of niece, eh—ahem; step-mother—um—a little mysterious; little under suspicion.”
“Stop!” interrupts Alan sternly. “On what authority dare you make such assertions?
”Mr. Grip permits the hand which holds the papers to rest upon one knee, and lifts his eyes to the face of his interrogator.
“I’ve reconnoitred,” he says tersely. “It’s a detective’s business to reconnoitre. I’m familiar with the facts in the case.”
Alan feels the perspiration start upon his brow, while he utters a mental, “Heaven forbid!”
“Now then,” resumes Mr. Grip, throwing himself back in his chair and stretching his legs underneath the table; “now then, here we go. Daisy Warburton is her father’s heiress. Remove her, the bulk of property probably goes to second wife—step mother, d’ye see? Remove her, property comes down to you.”
“Stop, sir! How dare you—preposterous!” And Alan Warburton pushes back his chair and rises, an angry flush upon his face.
Mr. Grip rises also. Stepping nimbly out from between the big chair and the table before it, he inserts his two hands underneath his two coat tails, bends his head forward, raising himself from time to time on the tips of his toes as he talks, and replies suavely:
“Ta ta; I’m reasoning. They have not both disappeared, have they? The lady in question is in the house at this present moment, is she not?”
“She is,” replied Alan, beginning to feel most uncomfortable.