Harley looked slightly puzzled.
“You mean, were they friendly, sir? Why, as friendly as the Boss ever was with anybody, sir! He was a tartar!”
“Harrison quarrel much with you, Harley?”
“He bawled me out now and then, sir.”
“Where else did you drive him this week?”
“No place until today. This morning I drove him to the Long Island Station—The Pennsylvania—and left him there. He told me to stop at his office for him at five.”
“Did you notice anything unusual in his manner?”
“He was in a devil of a temper, sir.”
“When you came into the house tonight,” said Bernard, “you didn’t happen to come in the door at the end of the wing, lock it behind you, go through the billiard-room into the sunken garden and then in the back door, did you?” The old detective’s voice had the purring smoothness of a high-priced car such as Harley drove.
The chauffeur’s reaction argued him both intelligent and hot-tempered.