On the previous day a new butler, one John Peterson, was employed in the Clayton residence to fill the position of the one who had been married. It was this new butler who answered the bell and admitted Nick Carter about seven o’clock in the evening of the third day after the crime. It was not the first time that he had seen and admitted the detective in charge of the case.
“Good evening, Peterson,” said Nick, pausing in the hall to remove his gloves and overcoat. “Mr. Clayton is at home, I infer.”
“Yes, sir; he is, sir,” bowed Peterson. “He is alone in the library, sir.”
“I would prefer to see him alone, Peterson,” said Nick, a bit dryly.
“Very well, sir.”
“Is there any change in Madame Clayton’s condition?”
“I think not, sir. She is just the same, sir. This way, sir.”
He was a sedate, punctilious fellow, this Peterson, with a very florid face and mutton-chop whiskers, a man apparently of middle age and with an exalted appreciation of the functions of his position. One would have said with a glance, in fact, that Peterson had spent the best years of his life in the service of people of quality.
Nick followed him to the library, where Mr. Chester Clayton was awaiting him.
“Mr. Carter, sir,” said Peterson, on the threshold.