“Good-morning,” said Robin with easy assurance; “I’m delighted to hear that you’ve found Miss Trevert, Jeekes, for, to tell the truth, I was feeling somewhat uneasy about her ...”
The secretary’s face was a study. The surprise of seeing Robin, who had dropped, it seemed to him, out of the clouds into the city of Rotterdam, deprived him of speech for an instant. He blinked his eyes, looked this way and that, and finally, with a sort of blind gesture, readjusted his pince-nez and glared at the intruder.
Then, without a word, he got into the car. But Robin, with a firm hand, stayed the door which Jeekes would have closed behind him.
“Excuse me,” Robin remarked decidedly, “but I’m coming with you if your friend”—at this he looked at the man in the driving-seat—“has no objection ...”
Mr. Jeekes cast a frightened glance at the sallow man.
The latter said impatiently:
“We’re wasting time, Jeekes. Who is this gentleman?”
“This is Mr. Greve,” said the little secretary hurriedly, “a friend of Mr. Parrish and Miss Trevert. He was staying in the house at the time of the tragedy. He has, I understand, taken a prominent part in the investigations as to the motive of our poor friend’s sad end ...”
Mr. Jeekes looked to Robin as he said this as though for confirmation. The man at the driving-wheel turned and gave the little secretary a quick glance. Then he mustered Robin with a slow, insolent stare. He had a yellow face and small black eyes quick and full of intelligence.
Then he bowed.