He paused, fixing his gaze upon the face of Brisley, whose shifty eyes avoided him and who was licking his lips in the manner of a dog who has seen the whip.
“Why,” said Gray, “I believe you are the fellow who has been following me all night for some reason.”
He stepped toward the foxy little man but:
“Never mind, Gray,” interrupted Irvin. “I was to blame. But he was following my wife, not you. Tell me quickly: Why did she come here?”
Gray raised his hand to his brow with a gesture of bewilderment.
“To consult this man, Kazmah. I actually saw her enter the inner room, I went to get a cab, and when I returned the door was locked.”
“You knocked?”
“Of course. I made no end of a row. But I could get no reply and went away.”
Monte Irvin turned, a pathetic figure, to the Inspector who stood beside him.
“We may as well proceed, Inspector Whiteleaf,” he said. “Mr. Gray’s evidence throws no light on the matter at all.”