Four men were standing there, and four pairs of eyes were focussed
upon the stair-head.
Monte Irvin, his features a distressing ashen color, spoke.
"That you, Gray?" Quentin Gray would not have recognized the voice.
"Thanks for offering your help. God knows I need all I can get. You
were with Rita tonight. What happened? Where is she?"
"Heaven knows where she is!" cried Gray. "I left her here with Pyne
shortly after seven o'clock."
He paused, fixing his gaze upon the face of Brisley, whose shifty eyes
avoided him and who was licking his lips in the manner of a dog who
has seen the whip.
"Why," said Gray, "I believe you are the fellow who has been following
me all night for some reason."
He stepped toward the foxy little man but:
"Never mind, Gray," interrupted Irvin. "I was to blame. But he was
following my wife, not you. Tell me quickly: Why did she come here?"
Gray raised his hand to his brow with a gesture of bewilderment.
"To consult this man, Kazmah. I actually saw her enter the inner room,
I went to get a cab, and when I returned the door was locked."
"You knocked?"
"Of course. I made no end of a row. But I could get no reply and went
away."
Monte Irvin turned, a pathetic figure, to the Inspector who stood
beside him.
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