The sound of voices in the library broke in upon his thoughts. Robin raised his head and listened. Some one appeared to be talking in a loud voice ... no, not talking ... rather declaiming.
Stepping quietly on the hard gravel path, Robin turned the corner of the house and came into view of the library window. The window-pane gaped, shattered where Horace Trevert had broken the glass on the previous evening when effecting an entrance into the room. Framed in the ragged outline of the splintered glass, bulked the large form of Sergeant Harris. He stood half turned from the window so as to catch the light on a copy of The Times which he held in his red and freckled hands. He was reading aloud in stentorian tones from a leading article.
“While this country,” he bawled sonorously, “cannot ... in h’our belief ... hevade ... er ... responsibility ... er ... h’m disquieting sitwation ...”
“Dear me!” thought Robin to himself, “what a very extraordinary morning pursuit for our police!”
Suddenly the reading was interrupted.
Robin heard the library door open. Then Manderton’s voice cried:
“That’ll do, thank you, Sergeant!”
“Did you ’ear me, sir?” asked the sergeant, who seemed very much relieved to be quit of his task.
“Not a word!” was the reply. “But we’ll try with the library door open! I’ll go back to the hall and you start again!”
A thoughtful look on his face, Robin turned quickly and, hurrying round the side of the house, entered by the front door. Standing by the door leading to the library corridor he found Manderton.