"Thank goodness Sir Edgar is in London and can supply an alibi," he added, almost under his breath.
But Constable Roberts turned on his heel as he caught the words, the ruddy colour deserting his face, leaving it white and strained.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but that's just what 'e ain't. I passed the station on my way here, and there was Sir Edgar 'imself on top of the steps. 'E must 'ave come in by the 9:10 train and 'e didn't see me, but I see 'im as plain as life. Lord pray someone else saw 'im, too!"
Speaking, he turned and left the room, and as Mr. Narkom gazed at Cleek, their mutual feeling showed only too visibly on their white, tense faces.
So the unhappy boy had taken matters into his own hands after all. That matter was only too clear. He might have gone to town, true enough, but only waited there long enough for it to get dark, that he might be free and undisturbed in his task of revenge.
"There's no help for it, Cleek," said the Superintendent with a little shrug of despair. "I would have given one hundred pounds to have prevented it, but——"
His voice trailed off and he let the rest of the sentence go by default. Without further comment he turned and hurried out of the room. Already he could hear Constable Roberts tramping from floor to floor in a vain search for something in the nature of a murderer, and could not help thinking once more as he went out into the blackness of the night of the tragedy that this hot-headed boy had brought upon his house.
Cleek followed slowly. It took him but a second to get back into the lane, but there was no sign of Dollops, nor did the familiar hoot of a night-owl, Cleek's favourite signal, bring forth any reply. Dollops indeed had vanished as if the earth had opened and swallowed him up.