“Yes; but it doesn’t matter.”
“Well, if it doesn’t matter, we won’t quarrel. I guess you’ve got a message of some sort for me, else you wouldn’t trouble to climb these stairs. Why don’t you have el-e-vators in these big buildings?”
“As I said,” began Mr. White, “we are from Scotland Yard.”
“That’s so. I’ve got that fixed O.K. Your name is I. White, from Scotland Yard. I don’t know where Scotland Yard is, but we’ll worry along without the geography of it.”
“I am in the police. My title is Inspector. It is not my Christian name. Scotland Yard is the headquarters of the London police.”
The American’s eyes opened wide in wonder at this announcement, and a perplexing thought seemed to occur to him. But he said quietly:
“I’ll figure it out better when you tell me why you’ve been good enough to call. And suppose we all sit down. I’m not used to stone pavements. I’m tired.”
“Your name is Sydney H. Corbett?” said the detective severely, though he took a chair.
“So my people always told me.”
“And you have occupied these chambers since August last?”