“I have not that honour,” said Anthony. “But this gentleman is Superintendent Battle of Scotland Yard.”
“Is that so?” said the American gentleman, with a great appearance of interest. “Pleased to meet you, sir. My name is Hiram P. Fish, of New York City.”
“What was it you wanted to see, Mr. Fish?” asked the detective.
The American walked gently into the room, and looked with much interest at the dark patch on the floor.
“I am interested in crime, Mr. Battle. It is one of my hobbies. I have contributed a monograph to one of our weekly periodicals on the subject ‘Degeneracy and the Criminal.’ ”
As he spoke, his eyes went gently round the room, seeming to note everything in it. They rested just a shade longer on the window.
“The body,” said Superintendent Battle, stating a self-evident fact, “has been removed.”
“Surely,” said Mr. Fish. His eyes went on to the panelled walls. “Some remarkable pictures in this room, gentlemen. A Holbein, two Van Dycks, and, if I am not mistaken, a Velasquez. I am interested in pictures—and likewise in first editions. It was to see his first editions that Lord Caterham was so kind as to invite me down here.”
He sighed gently.
“I guess that’s all off now. It would show a proper feeling I suppose, for the guests to return to town immediately?”
“I’m afraid that can’t be done, sir,” said Superintendent Battle. “Nobody must leave the house until after the inquest.”