“Heaven knows,” answered Westerham, “and it is quite impossible for me to help you unless you will tell me everything. When you need me, send for me at Walter's Hotel.”
Again Kathleen shuddered, and the cab drove on, leaving Westerham standing alone on the pavement lost in sorrowful thought.
At Walter's he was received most ungraciously. He had not been back there since the night of the murder, and his absence had caused great distrust. Though Inspector Rookley had informed the manager that no suspicion attached to his guest, Mr. Robinson, his words hardly coincided with the presence of the younger detective, who, having taken a room there, never left the premises.
Immediately on Westerham's return he communicated with his chief, and in half an hour Rookley came round from Scotland Yard.
He sent his name up to Westerham and Westerham judged it as well to see the man at once. The inspector came up to the little sitting-room looking grave and anxious. He also seemed a trifle nervous at broaching the subject of Westerham's absence.
“Really, you know, Mr. Robinson,” he said, “you are hardly going the way to give us any confidence in you. Of course, I know that you have great influence at your back, but what the Prime Minister may care to do does not altogether affect us. It is quite possible that some of those who occupy high places may be mistaken, and it is as much for Lord Penshurst's protection as for our own that we are compelled to keep you ‘under observation.’
“You have escaped once, but you may not escape so easily a second time, and I must warn you that these disappearances of yours have to be notified to the Commissioner himself. He is very much alarmed at the whole course of events, and is determined to take action in spite of Lord Penshurst's protestations.”
“That seems to me,” said Westerham, “an unwise thing to do.”
The detective grew a trifle alarmed. What he had said was only partially true, and he felt that he had gone too far.