“But there are foreigners who are gentlemen,” Max ventured to suggest.
“Yes, there may be. I haven’t met many, and we have to deal with all classes, you know. But tell me the circumstances,” added the inspector, scenting mystery in this sudden flight. “Petrovitch might be some City speculator who had suddenly been ruined, or a bankrupt who had absconded.”
Max Barclay was, however, not very communicative. Perhaps it was because of Charlie’s inexplicable presence in that deserted house, or perhaps on account of the inspector’s British antipathy towards foreigners; nevertheless, he said nothing regarding that woman’s coat with the tell-tale mark of blood.
Besides, the Doctor and Maud must be somewhere in the vicinity. No doubt he would come round to Dover Street in the morning and explain his unusual removal. The discovery of Rolfe’s presence there was nevertheless inexplicable. The more he reflected upon it, the more suspicious it seemed. The inspector’s curiosity had been aroused by Max’s demeanour. The latter had briefly related how he had called, to find the house empty, and both occupier, his daughter, and the servants gone.
“Did you see any servant when you were there this evening?”
“Yes; the man-servant Costa.”
“Ah, a foreigner! Old or young?”
“Middle-aged.”
“A devoted retainer of his master, of course.”
“I believe so.”