"No; both ladies went away on Sunday morning. They often go either Saturday or Sunday, and come back some time on Monday. You might find them later in the evening. There's nothing wrong, is there?" he added, as though the respectability of the Mansions was a matter of concern to him.
"Why should you think so?"
"I'm old-fashioned, I suppose, and I expect to hear queer things about theatrical folk; besides, there's a friend of Miss Wickham's been here three times to-day, and he seemed worried at not finding her."
"Oh, you mean Mr. Rowton," I said, and the porter fell into the trap.
"No, I don't know him. This was Mr. Marsh—the Honorable Percival Marsh."
"He's been, has he?" I said, keeping up the deception to allay the man's suspicions. "I must try and see him."
"He lives in Jermyn Street, you know."
"Yes; I shall go there."
But I did not go to Jermyn Street at once; I went to see Quarles.
"I'm perplexed, Wigan," said the professor before I could utter a word. "I've seen a man with a stiletto driven into his neck, yet, as soon as I begin to think of the murderer, something seems to tell me it wasn't murder."