On which ambiguous remark Miss Van Gorder took her leave, rather grimly smiling.
It was after she had gone that Anderson’s glance fell on Brooks, standing warily in the doorway.
“What are you? The gardener?”
But Brooks was prepared for him.
“Ordinarily I drive a car,” he said. “Just now I’m working on the place here.”
Anderson was observing him closely, with the eyes of a man ransacking his memory for a name—a picture. “I’ve seen you somewhere—” he went on slowly. “And I’ll—place you before long.” There was a little threat in his shrewd scrutiny. He took a step toward Brooks.
“Not in the portrait gallery at headquarters, are you?”
“Not yet.” Brooks’s voice was resentful. Then he remembered his pose and his back grew supple, his whole attitude that of the respectful servant.
“Well, we slip up now and then,” said the detective slowly. Then, apparently, he gave up his search for the name—the pictured face. But his manner was still suspicious.
“All right, Brooks,” he said tersely, “if you’re needed in the night, you’ll be called!”