At Bruton Street Westerham found his rooms in much the same condition as the newspaper had described.
The valet, pale and troubled-looking, was seated on a chair in the dining-room, evidently fending off question after question which was being put to him by a couple of men whom, without much effort of imagination, Westerham instantly recognised as detectives.
As he stood on the threshold, the elder and taller of the two men left the valet and approached him.
“You are Mr. Robinson?” he asked.
Westerham nodded.
“My name, sir,” said the big man, “is Inspector Rookley, from Scotland Yard. We were, of course, called in by the police in Vine Street. This is a most mysterious affair.”
“Apparently,” said Westerham, easily. “I have been reading about it in the evening papers.”
“I think it will be better,” said Mr. Rookley, gravely, “if my colleague takes your valet away while I make a few inquiries.”
“I am not at all sure that I desire any inquiries to be made.”
Mr. Rookley was first astounded and then suspicious.