“Not yet, Monsieur Carter, and there is no haste. I know them. That is enough.”
“And I think you can add nothing to the information you have given me,” said Nick, smiling. “I am obliged to you for it. Here is my card. If anything turns up later, perchance, telephone to me.”
Perrot promised to do so, and the detective departed.
“Gee! this certainly looks bad, chief, don’t it?” questioned Patsy, as they walked down the avenue.
“Superficially, Patsy, it certainly does,” Nick allowed.
“Was some one out to get Waldmere? Has he been turned down in cold blood?”
“I am not ready to say. I wish to dig a little deeper.”
One o’clock that afternoon brought additional evidence. It came through Monsieur Perrot, who was admitted to the detective’s residence in a state of suppressed excitement.
He brought in a paper wrapper—the cape of the Spanish cavalier costume worn by Archie Waldmere the previous night.
It was gashed in two places with a knife, as if the wearer had been stabbed, and the cloth was saturated with blood.