Then the detective said something else in a joking way, and the porter shook his head. "I haven't got a key! He had another lock put on. Lots of business gentlemen do that." And then he asked anxiously, "D'you see any objection to my telephoning to Messrs. Drew & Co.—they're the agents, you know? 'Twould make me more comfortable in my own mind, because then I shouldn't get blamed—whatever happened. They'd send some one along in about five minutes—they've got a West End office."
The Scotland Yard official looked round for instructions from Sir Angus, and the latter imperceptibly nodded.
"All right—we'll wait five minutes. I've brought some tools along."
"Tools?" The porter stared at him.
"Sometimes, you know, we do find it necessary to burst open a door!"
The five minutes—it was barely more—seemed the longest time Katty had ever spent in waiting.
Lord St. Amant took pity on her obvious unease and anxiety. He walked out with her to the street, and they paced quickly up and down in the cold, wintry air.
"Do you think we shall find anything?" she murmured at last.
He answered gravely, "I confess that the whole thing looks very queer to me. I haven't lived to my time of life without becoming aware that amazing, astounding things do happen. Perhaps I am over-influenced by the fact that years and years ago, when I was a boy, a school-fellow of mine, of whom I was very fond, did shoot himself accidentally with a pistol. He was staying with us, and he had gone on in front of me into the gun-room—and I—I went in and found him lying on the ground—dead."
"How horrible!" murmured Katty. "How very horrible!" and her face blanched.