“Which,” remarked Ludlow, when Crofts had finished this account, “I for one am going to accede to, as a reasonable request.”
We agreed it was best to take turns standing guard. Belvoir, on account of his being particularly a friend of Maryvale’s, offered to be the first on duty. We left him there, smoking his pipe, leaning against the doorpost, his ear to the door.
What “work” could Maryvale be doing?
Poor Crofts, a host with a dead man and a madman in his house! I passed him on the bottom step, gnawing a knuckle, apparently making quite a meal.
“Bad luck, old man.”
He regarded me listlessly. “I had a ’phone call this afternoon from the Post Office. Harry Heatheringham has wired for full particulars.”
“Ye Gods! Who is Harry Heatheringham?”
“Oh, I supposed you knew. One of the really high-powered detectives. Happens to be a friend of mine.”
“Scotland Yard?”
“No, he prefers the country air. He’s a Worcester man. I wonder what Salt would say.”