"Hour appointed, between three and four--precisely, sir; _pre_cisely.

But my time's valuable, Mr. Warburton; _valuable_, sir! And it's better too early than too late. Everything's cut and dried, and nothing else on hand for this hour; couldn't afford to waste it."

Mr. Grip's words fell from his lips like hailstones from a November sky--rap, rap, rap; patter, patter; swift, sharp, decisive. And Alan was not slow to realize that all the combined dignity of all the combined Warburtons, would be utterly lost upon this plebeian.

Plebeian, Mr. Grip evidently was, from the crown of his head to the tips of his too highly polished, creaking boots. Vulgarity reveled in the plaid of his jaunty business suit, flaunted in the links of his glittering watch guard, and gleamed in the folds of his gorgeous neck gear. You smelled it in his ambrosial locks; you saw it in his self-satisfied face, and heard it in his inharmonious voice.

And this was Augustus Grip, of Scotland Yards! Well, one might be a good detective and yet not be a gentleman. So mused Alan; and then, seeing that Mr. Grip, while waiting for him to speak, was utilizing the seconds by making a survey of the premises, he said:

"Will you be seated, Mr. Grip?"

Mr. Grip dropped comfortably into the nearest lounging-chair, crossed one knee over the other, and resting a hand on either arm of the chair, began to talk rapidly.

"I've got your business down fine, sir; _fine_," emphasizing with both hands upon the chair arms. "Saves time; always do it when possible.

Posted at Agency--less to learn here." And Mr. Grip begins to fumble in the breast-pocket of his startling plaid coat. "Was informed by--um--um--" producing a packet of folded papers and running them over rapidly; "oh, here we are."

He restores the packet to his pocket, having selected the proper memoranda, and then without rising, but with a jerking movement of the knees and elbows, he propels his chair toward the table near which Alan is still standing. Putting the memoranda on the table before him, he unfolds them rapidly, and looks up at his host.

"Sit down, Warburton."

A look of displeasure flits across Alan's face. He remains standing, seeming to grow more haughtily erect.

"My instructions," continues Mr. Grip, who has not lifted his eyes from the doc.u.ments before him, "are, take entire charge of case; investigate in own way. That's what I like."

If Alan had ventured a comment just then, it would have been, "_you_ are not what _I_ like." But he did not speak; and Mr. Grip, having paused for a remark and hearing none, now glanced up.

"Is that your pleasure, Mr. Warburton?"

A certain touch of acidity in the tone, recalls Alan to a sense of his position. This man before him is a man of business, a detective highly recommended by the Chief of Police, and he needs his services. He moves a step nearer the table and begins.

"That is what I--"

"Precisely," breaks in Mr. Grip. "Now, then," referring to papers, "first--sit down, won't you? it's more sociable."

And Alan puts his aristocracy in his pocket and sits down opposite the dazzling necktie.

"Now then," recommences Mr. Grip, "I've got the _facts_ in the case."

"You have?"

"Facts in case; yes." And he takes up the memoranda, reading therefrom:

"Lost child; daughter of Archibald Warburton; only daughter." Then, turning his eyes upon Alan: "Father killed by shock, I'm told; sad--very."

And he resumes his reading. "Relatives: Alan Warburton, uncle; fond of niece, eh--ahem; step-mother--um--a little mysterious; _little_ under suspicion."

"Stop!" interrupts Alan sternly. "On what authority dare you make such a.s.sertions?"

Mr. Grip permits the hand which holds the papers to rest upon one knee, and lifts his eyes to the face of his interrogator.

"I've reconnoitred," he says tersely. "It's a detective's business to reconnoitre. I'm familiar with the facts in the case."

Alan feels the perspiration start upon his brow, while he utters a mental, "Heaven forbid!"

"Now then," resumes Mr. Grip, throwing himself back in his chair and stretching his legs underneath the table; "now then, _here_ we go. Daisy Warburton is her father's heiress. Remove her, the bulk of property probably goes to second wife--_step mother_, d'ye see? Remove _her_, property comes down to _you_."

"Stop, sir! How dare you--preposterous!" And Alan Warburton pushes back his chair and rises, an angry flush upon his face.

Mr. Grip rises also. Stepping nimbly out from between the big chair and the table before it, he inserts his two hands underneath his two coat tails, bends his head forward, raising himself from time to time on the tips of his toes as he talks, and replies suavely:

"Ta ta; I'm _reasoning_. They have _not_ both disappeared, have they?

The lady in question is in the house at this present moment, is she not?"

"She is," replied Alan, beginning to feel most uncomfortable.

"She is. Well, now, if _she_ should disappear, _then_ suspicion might point to you. As it is--ahem--" Here Alan fancies that Mr. Grip is watching him furtively. "As it is--we will begin to investigate."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Stop, sir! How dare you--preposterous!"--page 274.]

Mr. Grip reseats himself, folds away his memoranda, and, reclining once more at his ease, looks up at Alan coolly.

"First, Mr. Warburton, I must see your sister-in-law."

Alan cannot restrain his start of surprise, nor the look of anxiety that crosses his face.

"Not at present," he says, after a moment's hesitation. "She is ill; it would--"

"So much the better," interrupts the detective. "Worn out, no doubt; nervous. May surprise something. _I must see her_, and every other member of this household, myself unseen."

"Ah!" thinks Alan, his hands clenching themselves involuntarily, "if I dared throw you out of the window!"

And then, with a shade more of haughtiness than he had as yet used in addressing this man, who was fast becoming his tormentor, he asks:

"Mr. Grip, is this so very necessary?"

Slowly the detective leans forward; slowly he raises a warning forefinger.

"My _dear_ sir," he says impressively, "if you want to catch a thief will you say, 'come here, my dear, and be arrested?' _No, sir_; you catch her _unawares_. Tell that fine lady that she is to be interviewed by a detective, and, presto! she shuts her secrets up behind a mantle of smiles or sneers. Call her in, and lead her to talk; I'll employ my eyes and ears. Use the cues set down here--" he extends to Alan a folded slip of paper. "Put her at her ease, and leave the rest to me. Now then--"

Again he rises, and this time he begins a slow survey of the room.

Alan, thoroughly alarmed for Leslie's safety as well as for his own, begins to wonder how this strange interview is to end. Even if he should summon Leslie, would she come at his call? Yes; he feels sure that she would, remembering her message of the morning. And what may she not say?

If he could give her a word, a sign of warning. But those eyes, that are even now bestowing questioning glances upon him, are too keen. He would only bungle. He will try again.

"Mr. Grip," he says, "my sister-in-law is already ill from excitement.

If we could spare her this interview--"

"Sir!" Augustus Grip wheels suddenly, and looks straight into his face while he continues sharply: "My _good_ sir; for your _own_ sake, don't!

_You_ should have no reason for keeping a witness in the background."