It was Harris who produced it. Under the guidance of a reporter he was led to the office of the Chronicle , where the young gentleman turned him over to the managing editor quite as though the clue were his own.
“Here, Mr. Digby, is a party that knows who shot Loftus.”
Mr. Digby was a small man with a big beard, very well dressed, remarkably civil.
“Yes,” he said. “And who did?”
“ Mr. Arthur Annandale.”
Mr. Digby smiled. He did not believe it. But it stirred him pleasurably. The Chronicle stood for the people. Annandale represented the predatory rich. Besides, it was in front of Annandale’s house that Loftus had been found. At once he saw scoops, extras, headlines. Also the possible libel. Meanwhile at a glance he had taken Harris in.
“You are in his employment?”
“Yes, sir,” Harris, amazed at such perspicacity, replied. “I am the butler.”
“And you saw him do it?”
“No, sir, but I heard him say he would.”
“When?”
“The night Mr. Loftus was shot.”
“To whom did he say it? To you?”
“To Mrs. Annandale, sir.”
“Oho! How was that?”