Gloves off, he gazed into the hatrack mirror, and, with his palms, augmented the radiant smoothness of his remarkable hair, much as if that was the one personal adornment of which he was really proud.
He hesitated at the base of the stairs, toward which he had deliberately turned, and then gazed toward the library and listened, finally wheeling abruptly and walking in that direction.
Nick drew from behind the door, and in another moment the stranger appeared on the threshold—only to recoil with a startled cry, hands in the air, and with his face gone white with alarm.
“Don’t be frightened,” said Nick, sharply regarding him. “A crime has been committed here, and we are detectives. Who are you? I suppose you reside here.”
“Detectives—crime!” The man steadied himself, yet spoke with a gasp of augmented dismay. “You do[Pg 9]n’t mean a murder? Merciful Heaven! What’s wrong with Mrs. Clayton?”
His gaze had fallen upon her, but she had not so much as glanced in his direction, nor appeared to know him, or have more interest in him than in the others.
“There is more wrong here than can be told with a breath,” Nick replied. “Step in and answer my question. To begin with, sir, who are you?”
“I am Mr. Chester Clayton’s private secretary, Rollo Garside,” said he, with a manifest effort to pull himself together.
“Do you reside here?”
“Yes, yes, certainly. Who are you? How came you here? Why——”