“But how could we know?” asked Mrs. Harrington; “he seemed perfectly all right, although I did say he might be a murderer.”
“That’ll come out in court,” Taylor reminded her disagreeably. “If it hadn’t been that my men were here to swear to me, I’d have spent the night in one of your little one-horse jails, and he’d have got away. When I do get him he’ll remember Daniel Taylor till the day he dies.”
Monty, overhearing these direful threats from behind a door, and happy because of his friend’s escape, walked boldly in.
“Did you get the burglar?” he demanded airily.
“There wasn’t any burglar,” Alice told him.
“It was your old friend Denby that caused all the trouble,” Michael informed him, “the old friend you introduced into my house. I tell you, Monty—” “Don’t explain,” Taylor commanded. “Now,” he snapped to Monty, “have you seen Steven Denby in the last ten minutes?”
Monty found with glee that so far from being nervous he was enjoying the scene. He only regretted that his moustache was not long enough to permit him to curl it to a fierce and martial angle. He was glad that Nora had crept into the room and was watching him.
“Isn’t he in bed?” he demanded, yawning.
“You know he isn’t in bed,” Taylor answered. “Maybe you’re his pal—in on this job with him. Come here.”
Monty wished to refuse, but Taylor had a compelling manner, so he advanced with an insolent slowness.