“He does feel it very much, sir. He was as agitated about it yesterday as could be, when Mr. Galloway talked of putting it into the hands of the police. It is a disagreeable thing to happen in an office, you know, sir.”
A slight pause of silence was made by the detective ere he rejoined. “Agitated, was he? And Mr. Roland Yorke the same, no doubt?”
“No, sir; Mr. Roland does not seem to care much about it. He thinks it must have been taken in its transit through the post-office, and I cannot help being of the same opinion, sir.”
Another question or two, and Jenkins attended Mr. Butterby to the door. He was preparing to follow him from it, but a peremptory female voice arrested his departure.
“Jenkins, I want you.”
“It is hard upon half-past nine, my dear. I shall be late.”
“If it’s hard upon half-past ten, you’ll just walk here. I want you, I say.”
Meek as any lamb, Mr. Jenkins returned to the back parlour, and was marshalled into a chair. Mrs. Jenkins closed the door and stood before him. “Now, then, what did Butterby want?”
“I don’t know what he wanted,” replied Jenkins.
“You will sit there till you tell me,” resolutely replied the lady. “I am not going to have police inquisitors making mysterious visits inside my doors, and not know what they do it for. You’ll tell me every word that passed, and the sooner you begin, the better.”