“What kind of a man was he?”
“Middle-aged. Grey hair. Very good class, I should say—most respectable. I understood he was Senator Westerham’s valet. He left Mr. Wilmott’s bag and took away the other.”
“Had it been unpacked at all?”
“Which one, sir?”
“Well, I meant the one you brought from the boat. But I should like to know about the other as well— Mr. Wilmott’s own. Had that been unpacked, do you fancy?”
“I should say not, sir. It was just as I strapped it up on the boat. I should say the gentleman—whoever he was—just opened it—realised it wasn’t his, and shut it up again.”
“Nothing missing? No small article?”
“I don’t think so, sir. In fact, I’m quite sure.”
“And now the other one. Had you started to unpack that?”
“As a matter of fact, sir, I was just opening it at the very moment Senator Westerham’s man arrived. I’d just undone the straps.”
“Did you open it at all?”
“We just unfastened it together, sir, to be sure no mistake had been made this time. The man said it was all right, and he strapped it up again and took it away.”
“What was inside? Boots also?”
“No, sir, mostly toilet things, I fancy. I know I saw a tin of bath salts.”