“Yes.”
“And all the other servants had gone to bed?”
“Yes.”
“You heard no unusual sounds that night?”
“If I had I should have investigated them.”
“No doubt,” sneered the other, “you look like a man who would enjoy running into a crook with a gun.”
“I should not enjoy it,” Austin returned seriously.
Inspector McWalsh beckoned to one of his inferiors.
“Keep this man outside till I send for him and see he don’t speak to his boss who’s waiting. Send Mr. Warren right in.”
Conington Warren, one of the most popular men in society, member of the desirable clubs, millionaire owner of thoroughbreds, came briskly in. He was now about fifty, handsome still, but his florid face was marked by the convivial years. Inspector McWalsh had long followed the Warren colors famous on the big race courses. His manner showed his respect for the owner of his favorite stable.