“Or from the Professor himself,” he suggested.
I held my breath. What would he have said if I had told him the truth—that the Professor was dead, and that a button from his overcoat had been lying among the ashes of the furnace?
I glanced around the comfortable room where the fire glowed cheerfully and the electric lights were so cunningly shaded. The Professor was, among other things, a connoisseur of old silver, and upon the sideboard were a number of fine Georgian pieces, tankards, salvers, candelabra, salt-cellars, decanter stands, and other things, all of which I recognised as perfect specimens.
My hand went to my jacket pocket, and I there felt the button. I withdrew my fingers in horror.
We had decided to await the return of the Professor. Await his return! Surely we would have a long time to wait for his arrival?
I was on my mettle. I alone knew the truth, and to conceal my secret knowledge from this shrewd and active young man would, I saw, be difficult.
We seated ourselves beside the fire, and, having offered me a cigarette from his case, he began to endeavour to learn more about me. But at first I was very wary, and exercised caution in my replies.
He apologised for mistaking me for an accomplice of thieves, whereat I laughed, saying:
“When we meet the Professor he will perhaps tell you of our long friendship.”
“Curiously enough,” he said, looking straight across at me, “I never recollect Ethelwynn speaking of you.”