Valois shook his head: "I always bring his breakfast at eight," he explained.
"Did he say anything about suddenly leaving the city for a trip West?
I heard such a rumour."
"No, sir. He was still up when I left and had taken some papers from his pocket. When last I saw him he was looking at them. He seemed irritated."
There was a moment's silence, during which the flush returned to
Cavendish's cheeks, but his hands still trembled.
"You heard nothing during the night?" he demanded.
"Nothing, sir. I swear I knew nothing until I opened the door and saw the body a few moments ago."
"You'd better stick to your story, Valois," the other said sternly,
"The police will be here shortly. I'm going to call them, now."
He was calm, efficient, self-contained now as he got Central Station upon the wire and began talking.
"Hello, lieutenant? Yes. This is John Cavendish of the Waldron apartments speaking. My cousin, Frederick Cavendish, has been found dead in his room and his safe rifled. Nothing has been disturbed. Yes, at the Waldron, Fifty-Seventh Street. Please hurry."
Perhaps half an hour later the police came—two bull-necked plain-clothes men and a flannel-mouthed "cop."