“Don’t ring, sir; I’m quite at home here.”
And he looks “quite at home;” as cool, careless, and inconsequent as on the day when, in that same room, he had accepted with reluctance his commission for the masquerade.
He had, on leaving Vernet, taken time to wash the stains and pencilings from his face, and to don an easy-fitting business-suit. Stanhope is himself again: a frank, cheery, confidence-inspiring presence.
“It seems to me,” he says, gazing from one to the other, “that there must be a special Providence in this meeting together, at the right time, of the very men I most wish to see. Of course, your presence is not mysterious,” nodding toward his Chief, “and Mr. Follingsbee—”
“Is here at my request,” interposed the Chief.
“Is he?” queries Stanhope. “I thought he was here at mine.”
“I believe,” says the lawyer, smiling slightly, “that your invitation did come first, Mr. Stanhope.”
“I had a reason for desiring Mr. Follingsbee to be present at this interview,” explains Stanhope. “And as I don’t want to be unnecessarily dramatic, nor to prolong painful anxiety, let me leave my explanations to the last. Mr. Parks, I believe I have found Arthur Pearson’s murderer.”
“Oh!”
