“He was here a minute ago—he’ll be back presently,” he said, praying to whatever gods he served that Anderson, bound and gagged in the billiard room, had not yet returned to consciousness.
Unobserved by all except Miss Cornelia, the mention of the detective’s name had caused a strange reaction in the Unknown. His eyes had opened—he had started—the haze in his mind had seemed to clear away for a moment. Then, for some reason, his shoulders had slumped again and the look of apathy come back to his face. But, stunned or not, it now seemed possible that he was not quite as dazed as he appeared.
The Doctor gave the slumped shoulders a little shake.
“Rouse yourself, man!” he said. “What has happened to you?”
“I’m dazed!” said the Unknown thickly and slowly. “I can’t remember.” He passed a hand weakly over his forehead.
“What a night!” sighed Miss Cornelia, sinking into a chair. “Richard Fleming murdered in this house—and now—this!”
The Unknown shot her a stealthy glance from beneath lowered eyelids. But when she looked at him, his face was blank again.
“Why doesn’t somebody ask his name?” queried Dale, and, “Where the devil is that detective?” muttered Beresford, almost in the same instant.
Neither question was answered, and Beresford, increasingly uneasy at the continued absence of Anderson, turned toward the hall.
The Doctor took Dale’s suggestion.