Patsy did not approach the house from in front. Stealing into the grounds from the side street, he crept around the garage, then picked his way over the damp lawn, taking advantage of the deeper gloom under the trees, until he found shelter under a huge clump of rhododendrons a few feet from the driveway, and within easy view of the side veranda and the French window of the brightly lighted library.
Patsy arrived there just in time to see Peterson usher Nick into the room. Both were dimly discernible through the lace draperies and under the partly drawn shades.
“Gee whiz! there’s the new butler,” chuckled Patsy, when he caught sight of him. “I hardly expected to get my lamps on him. Stiff as a ramrod, eh? But he’ll limber up, all right, if there should be anything doing.”
Peterson, having withdrawn from the library, encountered Mr. Garside just at that moment descending the front stairs. He paused and bowed respectfully when the private secretary spoke to him.
“Mr. Clayton is engaged, Peterson?” he said inquiringly.
“Yes, Mr. Garside, sir.”
“With whom, Peterson?”
“With Mr. Carter, sir, the detective,” said Peterson, with becoming humility.
Garside eyed him more sharply.
The florid face of the butler was as inscrutable as that of the sphinx.