Blaine looked up from the paper.
“Never heard of him. What sort of a man, Marsh?”
“Old, white-haired, carries himself like an old family servant of some sort. Looks as if he’d been crying. He’s trembling so he can scarcely stand, and seems deeply affected by something. Says he has a message for you, and must see you personally.”
“Very well. Show him in.”
“Thank you for receiving me, sir.” A quavering old voice sounded from the doorway a moment later, and Blaine turned in his chair to face the aged, erect, black-clad figure which stood there.
“Come in, Hicks.” The detective’s voice was kindly. “Sit down here, and tell me what I can do for you.”
“I bring you a message, sir.” The man tottered to the chair and sank into it. “A message from the dead.”
Blaine leaned forward suddenly.
“You were––”
“Mr. Rockamore’s valet, sir, and his father’s before him. I loved him as if he were my own son, if you will pardon the liberty I take in saying so, and when he came to this country I accompanied him. He was always good to me, sir, a kind young master and a real friend. It was I who found him this morning––”