Horace Trevert nodded.
“Yes,” he replied, looking hard at Robin.
“Why?”
“To get into the room, of course!”
“Was the window bolted?”
The boy stopped and thought.
“No,” he said slowly, “now I come to think of it, I don’t believe it was. No, of course, it wasn’t. I just put my arm through the broken pane and shoved the window up. But why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing,” answered Robin nonchalantly. “I just was curious to know, that’s all!”
Horace stood and looked at him for an instant. Then he went out.
A quarter of an hour later, Hartley Parrish’s Rolls-Royce glided through the straggling main street of Stevenish. A chapel bell tinkled unmusically, and on the pavements, gleaming with wet, went a procession of neatly dressed townsfolk bound, prayer-book in hand, for their respective places of worship. A newsboy, sorting out the Sunday newspapers which had just come down by train from London, was the only figure visible on the little station platform. Robin bought a selection.