Cleek laid a hand upon her arm, and bending his head, looked down at her, a great sadness upon his face.
"Justice is so often cruel, Miss Duggan," he said quietly, "and to men in my profession we have so often to be cruel to be kind. I wouldn't hurt you for the world, believe me. But I must do my duty to the Law that employs me at all costs. I am not indicting your fiancé—truly—and there may be still another way out. Men have borrowed each other's boots before now. And if you can tell me the size of the feet of the men in this household, it will be a considerable help."
She lifted her eyes and looked at him, filled with a sudden hope.
"I can tell you Ross's this minute," she said quickly. "He takes eights. He has a small foot, like poor old Father had. And Cyril's, of course, is just a boy's foot—sevens, I think."
"Any one else?"
"The butler, Jarvis. Our groom, Batchett, and the old gardener, McGubbins—and Mr. Tavish; but he's a huge man, and would take elevens, I should imagine—if not bigger. Anyhow, I'll make inquiries, and be back with you in ten minutes, if that will do."
"Make it twenty minutes, here—for I've other things to attend to," returned Cleek with a smile. "And don't worry more than you can help. Things will right themselves in time, you know; and there are lots of blind alleys in the pursuit of Justice which we often imagine to be the royal road to Rome. In twenty minutes, then. By the way, who attends to your laundry, may I ask? The sorting and counting of it I mean."
"You amazing man! What on earth do you want to know that for? Why, the laundry-maid, supervised by Miss McCall. One of her endless stream of duties."
"Thanks.... One more question. What do you know of Miss Catherine Dowd?"
She shook her head.