When Colonel McIntyre reappeared in the hall he was accompanied by Detective Ferguson. “Sorry to keep you standing, Kent,” he said. “I have sent for you and Ferguson, first because Grimes insists on seeing you, and second, because I am determined that this midnight house-breaking shall be thoroughly investigated and put an end to. This way,” and he led them into a large airy bedroom on the third floor, to which Grimes had been carried unconscious that morning, instead of to his own bedroom in the servants' quarters.
Grimes, with his head swathed in bandages, was a woe-begone object. He greeted Colonel McIntyre and the detective with a sullen glare, but his eyes brightened at sight of Kent, and he moved a feeble hand in welcome.
“Sit down, sirs,” he mumbled. “There's chairs for all.”
“Don't worry about us,” remarked McIntyre cheerily. “Just tell us how you got that nasty knock on the head.”
“I dunno, sir; it came like a clap o' thunder,” Grimes tried to lift his head, but gave over the attempt as excruciating pain followed the effort.
“What hour of the morning was it?” asked Ferguson.
“About one o'clock, as near as I can tell, sir.”
“And what were you doing in the library at that hour, Grimes?” demanded McIntyre.
“Trying to find out what your household was up to, sir,” was Grimes' unexpected answer, and McIntyre started.
“Explain your meaning, Grimes,” he commanded sternly.