“A detective, sir, from headquarters.”
“A detective! What on earth—did you telephone them, Clark?” The secretary shook his head. “No? Well, show him in, Wilkins.”
There was nothing about the man who entered to suggest a detective; he was quietly dressed, middle aged, and carried himself with military erectness. He had spent five years as a member of the Canadian Northwest mounted police, and that service had left its mark in his appearance.
“Good morning, Mr. Attorney General.” His bow included all in the room. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but my errand won’t take long.”
“Be seated, Mr. ——”
“Hardy—James Hardy, sir. Just before dawn this morning, O’Grady, who patrols this beat, noticed a man sneak out of your back yard. O’Grady promptly gave chase and caught his man just as he was boarding a train for New York. He took him to the station and had him locked up on suspicion. As the fellow had a full kit of burglar’s tools with him, including mask and sneakers, the Chief sent me round here to ask if you’d been robbed?”
“Oh, no,” replied the Attorney General. “I have just been through my safe and everything is intact. There’s nothing missing in your quarters, Wilkins?” he added, turning to the white-faced butler.
“No, sir; nothing, sir.” Wilkins’ voice trembled, and he looked at the detective with frightened eyes.
“Perhaps he tried, and finding all the windows barred gave it up as a bad job. I am—” continued the Attorney General, but his speech was cut short by the entrance of Doctor Davis.
“I am told there is a detective here.” The Attorney General bowed and motioned to Hardy. “You are properly accredited?” went on the physician. Hardy threw back his coat and displayed his badge. “Have you told him of Mrs. Trevor’s death?”