‘He escaped by the much more prosaic method of dashing through the drawing-room window, and clambering down from the verandah into the street, where he ran right into someone’s arms.’
‘Into whose arms,—a constable’s?’
‘No; into Mr Atherton’s,—Sydney Atherton’s.’
‘The inventor?’
‘The same.—Do you know him?’
‘I do. Sydney Atherton and I are friends of a good many years’ standing.—But Atherton must have seen where he came from;—and, anyhow, if he was in the state of undress which you have described, why didn’t he stop him?’
‘Mr Atherton’s reasons were his own. He did not stop him, and, so far as I can learn, he did not attempt to stop him. Instead, he knocked at my hall door to inform me that he had seen a man climb out of my window.’
‘I happen to know that, at certain seasons, Atherton is a queer fish,—but that sounds very queer indeed.’
‘The truth is, Mr Champnell, that, if it were not for Mr Atherton, I doubt if I should have troubled you even now. The accident of his being an acquaintance of yours makes my task easier.’
He drew his chair closer to me with an air of briskness which had been foreign to him before. For some reason, which I was unable to fathom, the introduction of Atherton’s name seemed to have enlivened him. However, I was not long to remain in darkness. In half a dozen sentences he threw more light on the real cause of his visit to me than he had done in all that had gone before. His bearing, too, was more businesslike and to the point. For the first time I had some glimmerings of the politician,—alert, keen, eager,—as he is known to all the world.