Gimblet had heard so much when the library door burst open, and Sir Gregory rushed into the room.
“Look at this,” he almost screamed, evidently beside himself with some painful emotion. “Look at this!”
He waved an evening paper.
“Oh, do go away, Sir Gregory,” said Gimblet; “can’t you see I’m busy? Hullo, Jennins! Jennins, are you there?”
But Sir Gregory would not be denied. Seizing Gimblet’s arm he tore him away from the telephone, and holding the newspaper under his eyes pointed to it with a shaking hand. He would have spoken, but sobs choked his utterance, and, glancing at him for the first time and in no very friendly humour, Gimblet was surprised to see that tears were rolling down the kindly pink face.
“Why, what’s the matter?” he said, but Sir Gregory only pointed to the unfolded sheet. The detective’s eyes at last followed the outstretched finger, and he read:
“Murder of Mrs. Vanderstein.
“Missing Lady Found Dead in Her Hotel at Boulogne.”