"Why—I suppose I must 'ave guessed it, sir. It seemed so likely, knowing what I do about Mr. Rutton."
Amber sat silent, unable to bring himself to put a single question in regard to the dead man's antecedents. But after a pause the servant continued voluntarily.
"He always 'ad a deal to do with persons who came from India—niggers—I mean, natives. It didn't much matter where we'd be—London or Paris or Berlin or Rome—they'd 'unt 'im up; some 'e'd give money to and they'd go aw'y; others 'e'd be locked up with in 'is study for hours, talking, talking. They'd 'ardly ever come the same one twice. 'E 'ated 'em all, Mr. Rutton did. And yet, sir, I always 'ad a suspicion—"
Doggott hesitated, lowering his voice, his gaze shifting uneasily to the still, shrouded figure in the corner.
"What?" demanded Amber tensely.
"I alw'ys thought per'aps 'e was what we call in England a man of colour, 'imself, sir."
"Doggott!"
"I don't mean no 'arm, sir; it was just their 'ounding him, like, and 'is being a dark-complected man the syme as them, and speakin' their language so ready, that made me think it. At least 'e might 'ave 'ad a little of their blood in 'im, sir. Things 'd seem unaccountable otherwise," concluded Doggott vaguely.
"It's impossible!" cried Amber.
"Yes, sir; at least, I mean I 'ope so, sir. Not that it'd myke any difference to me, the w'y I felt towards 'im. 'E was a gentleman, white or black. I'd've died for 'im any d'y."