"Do you
believe now that he was pulling our legs?"
Wilmore dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. It was a
chilly evening, but there were drops of perspiration still
standing there.
"Francis," he confessed, "it's horrible! I don't think realism
like this attracts me. It's horrible! What are we going to do?"
"Nothing for the present," was the brief reply. "If we were to
tell our story, we should only be laughed at. What there is to
be done falls to my lot."
"Had the police anything to say about it?" Wilmore asked.
"Only a few words," Francis replied. "Shopland has it in hand.
A good man but unimaginative. I've come across him in one or two
cases lately. You'll find a little bit like this in the papers
to-morrow: 'The murder is believed to have been committed by one
of the gang of desperadoes who have infested the west-end during
the last few months.' You remember the assault in the Albany
Court Yard, and the sandbagging in Shepherd Market only last
week?"
"That seems to let Sir Timothy out," Wilmore remarked.
"There are many motives for crime besides robbery," Francis
declared. "Don't be afraid, Andrew, that I am going to turn
amateur detective and make the unravelment of this case all the
more difficult for Scotland Yard. If I interfere, it will be on
a certainty.
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