The ejaculation was wrung from him by John Hale’s sudden clutch on his arm and before he quite realized what was happening he found himself propelled out of the car. Once on the sidewalk the little stockbroker turned to his big companion in wrathful bewilderment. The explanation John Hale offered for his precipitous action was given under his breath, and Jackson, the chauffeur, failed to hear it as he climbed back in his seat and, obedient to a signal from his employer, shut off his engine.
“That damn bounder from Police Headquarters is waiting for an interview, Frank.” John Hale indicated one of the library windows overlooking the street where Latimer saw a man peering out from behind the curtains. “I had entirely forgotten that Detective Ferguson telephoned and asked me to see him this afternoon. I want you to be present.”
The urgency of his tone silenced Latimer’s objections, and without a word he accompanied him into the house, Anna, the waitress, holding the front door hospitably open for them. Almost tossing his fur-lined overcoat and hat into the servant’s arms, John Hale strode at once into the library, and Latimer, pausing only long enough to put down his hat and cane on the hall table, followed him, forgetting in his interest that he had not removed his overcoat.
At the sound of their footsteps Detective Ferguson stepped away from the window-alcove where he had been a witness of their arrival. John Hale’s curt greeting and Latimer’s short nod caused him to redden; he was not accustomed to such outward display of contempt, for so he interpreted their manner.
“What can I do for you, Ferguson?” asked John Hale, signing to the detective to draw up a chair as he threw himself down on a lounge. “Sit down, Frank,” and he turned again to the detective, as the latter remained silent, with an impatient “Well?”
“You can answer a few questions, sir,” replied Ferguson.
John Hale lifted his broad shoulders in a contemptuous shrug.
“I have already shown great patience in that line,” he remarked dryly.
“Pardon me; you have answered a few questions most impatiently,” retorted Ferguson. His temper was rising and rapidly overcoming discretion. Instead of an angry rejoinder, John Hale gave a short laugh.
“Well, go on, what are your questions?” he asked. “Remember that we have just come from my stepson’s funeral, and,”—he cleared his throat before continuing—“I—have been under a severe strain.”