The sense of coming evil against which Westerham had struggled earlier in the evening swept over him again with redoubled force. He made an effort to shake it off, but again failed to do so.
“What is it?” he asked, and his voice sounded strange and harsh even to himself.
Without a word, Rookley grasped his arm and led him up the stairs, nor did he stop till he reached the second floor, on which were situated Westerham's sitting-room and modest bedroom.
Opening the door of the sitting-room, Rookley drew Westerham in and closed the door again.
“Look here, Mr. Robinson,” he said, “you gave us the slip last time, I admit; and I admit also that it was only by a very dreadful miracle that I discovered your whereabouts to-night. For I was summoned here on an awful piece of business. But we've got you now, and I want an explanation.”
Westerham stared at him with a set face.
“Now, one thing is certain—I will give you that much credit”—the detective continued—“that you are not the actual perpetrator of what has happened. Perhaps, too, it would be better to prepare you for a shock, though you look a pretty strong-nerved man. You'd better brace yourself, Mr. Robinson.”
“All right,” said Westerham, quietly.
Without more ado the detective pushed open the door communicating with Westerham's bedroom and led the way in.
The room was in darkness, but Rookley, putting his thumb on the electric button, suddenly switched on the light. And with a cry Westerham stepped back and blundered against the detective.