dently explaining and detailing, and the police inspector nodding his comprehension. But towards the close of this episode I got some information. White Whiskers, bringing his dinner to an end, summoned the waiter and gave him some audible commands. He must be called, with hot water and tea, at seven o'clock in the morning. Breakfast must be ready for him at precisely eight—sharp to the minute. And at nine o'clock the best car in the place must be at the door to take him to Kelpieshaw. How far away was this Kelpieshaw?—nine or ten miles by the road? Very good!—then nine o'clock, precisely.
These things settled, White Whiskers turned to Hilgrave, bland and affable.
"Well," he said, now speaking in quite audible accents, the occasion for secrecy having evidently passed, "what do you say to a cigar?—I suppose there's a smoking-room here?"
"Very kind of you, Sir Charles," replied the inspector. "Smoking-room just across the hall."
When they had gone away, I thought things over—rapidly. It was then close upon ten
