Mr. Inspector dipped a pen in his inkstand, and deftly laid it on a piece of paper close beside him; then resumed his former attitude. The stranger stepped up to the desk, and wrote in a rather tremulous hand— Mr. Inspector taking sidelong note of every hair of his head when it was bent down for the purpose—“ Mr. Julius Handford, Exchequer Coffee House, Palace Yard, Westminster.”
“Staying there, I presume, sir?”
“Staying there.”
“Consequently, from the country?”
“Eh? Yes—from the country.”
“Good night, sir.”
The satellite removed his arm and opened the wicket, and Mr. Julius Handford went out.
“Reserve!” said Mr. Inspector. “Take care of this piece of paper, keep him in view without giving offence, ascertain that he is staying there, and find out anything you can about him.”
The satellite was gone; and Mr. Inspector, becoming once again the quiet Abbot of that Monastery, dipped his pen in his ink and resumed his books. The two friends who had watched him, more amused by the professional manner than suspicious of Mr. Julius Handford, inquired before taking their departure too whether he believed there was anything that really looked bad here?
The Abbot replied with reticence, couldn’t say. If a murder, anybody might have done it. Burglary or pocket-picking wanted ’prenticeship. Not so, murder. We were all of us up to that. Had seen scores of people come to identify, and never saw one person struck in that particular way.