Inspector Dunbar rose.
“It is a point with which I need not trouble you, sir,” he said. “It was not included in the extract of report sent to you. This is going to be the biggest case of my professional career, or my name is not Robert Dunbar!”
Closing his notebook, he thrust it into his pocket, and replaced his fountain-pen in the little leather wallet.
“Of course,” said the solicitor, rising in turn, and adjusting the troublesome pince-nez, “there was some intrigue with Leroux? So much is evident.”
“You will be thinking that, eh?”
“My dear Inspector”—Mr. Debnam, the wily, was seeking information—“my dear Inspector, Leroux’s own wife was absent in Paris—quite a safe distance; and Mrs. Vernon (now proven to be a woman conducting a love intrigue) is found dead under most compromising circumstances—most compromising circumstances—in his flat! His servants, even, are got safely out of the way for the evening”…
“Quite so,” said Dunbar, shortly, “quite so, Mr. Debnam.” He opened the door. “Might I see the late Mrs. Vernon’s maid?”
“She is at her home. As I told you, Mrs. Vernon habitually released her for the period of these absences.”
The notebook reappeared.
