“Ho-ho, is that it? Fancy our friend Collins. He doesn’t fit in with marriage bells, somehow. I expect if there’s anything in it, he will give up amateur detective work.”
“Mr. Sylvester Collins to see you, sir,” said the messenger.
“Show him in,” said Boyce. Then in a whisper—“Not a word about this, he will only start arguing.”
Collins entered. He was neatly dressed as always, but he had a gaunt look and the lines on his face suggested sleepless nights.
“Where have you sprung from?” said Boyce, with affected geniality of manner. He was not anxious to go over the whole case with this man whose keen intellect he feared.
“Oh, I have been first in Devonshire and for the last three days on a walking tour.”
“You look it,” said Boyce.
“I really came to see Sinclair, but heard he was with you, so came on.”
Boyce looked uncomfortable. “Would you two rather be together? I have finished with him.”
“I suppose you have just settled the case of Sir James to your satisfaction, eh?” he said with a laugh.