“Oh, he’s a thick-headed chap, is White. By the way, that reminds me. He got hold of the maid, it seems, before she had bolted, and made her give him some of my wife’s clothes. By that means he established some sort of a theory about—”
“About a matter on which we differ,” put in Bruce quietly. “Let us talk of something else.”
The other moved restlessly in his chair, but yielded. For the remainder of the evening they discussed questions irrelevant to the course of this narrative.
It was late when they separated, but Bruce found Smith sitting up for him at home.
That faithful servitor bustled about, stirring the fire and turning up the lights. Finally he nervously addressed his master:
“Pardon me, sir, but there was a policeman here asking about you to-night, sir.”
“A policeman!”
“Well, sir, a detective—Mr. White, of Scotland Yard. I knew him, sir, though he did not think it. He came about ten o’clock, and asked where you were.”
“Did you tell him?”