“The girl may be the next,” the words seemed ominous—like a doom. Troubles encompassed him on every side. An hour or so previously he had faced the greatest odds he had ever known till then. The odds were greater now.
Conscious that the keen eyes of Rookley were upon him, he saw that instant action was necessary, and turning on his heel he walked deliberately into the sitting-room.
The detective followed him, and then seating himself at the table, Westerham bade the man take a chair.
For a moment the detective's face lighted up with anticipation. It seemed to him that at last the mysterious Mr. Robinson was about to make some statement. His anticipations were, however, to be disappointed.
“Well,” said Westerham, in a pleasant, even voice, “I am waiting for you to begin.”
“I was hoping,” said Mr. Rookley, “that you were about to make some statement.”
“I never make statements,” said Westerham, “any more than I answer questions which are inconvenient. What have you to say?”
Suddenly the detective leant forward and spoke so quickly that Westerham was almost thrown off his guard.
“Who are you, Mr. Robinson?”
“I can only give you the same answer,” said Westerham, “which I gave you before—that my name is my own business.”