Tall, well-built, with a smooth-shaven face, a square chin and a nose that stood well out into the air, Murgatroyd was a man who appeared to be without enthusiasm; but although sharp and business-like, his manner was easy. Turning to Shirley, he came to the point at once.
"I want to see Mrs. Challoner," he announced. "But I'm glad you're here, for I don't know her very well, and——"
"You can't very well see her now," Shirley interrupted, shaking her head. "She's frightfully unstrung—she's ill. You know it's almost three weeks now since Laurie first went away, and——"
"I know," he broke in just a bit impatiently.
"What?" Shirley gasped, the truth at last dawning upon her; "you don't mean to say that you're here in—in your official capacity?"
Murgatroyd smiled grimly.
"It's the only capacity in which I'm likely to be here, Shirley," he reminded her.
"But," she protested, "I thought they left these things to——"
"The police," he finished; and again smiled grimly. "They do, but there are reasons—You see," he went on to explain, "since I was appointed prosecutor of the pleas, I've turned up a thing or two in the Police Department, and, well, the Police Department and I are somewhat out of tune. This case they have put up to me and my men——"
"Surely you can't mean to imply that you have to do this kind of thing yourself?" The girl looked askance.