"Who told
Scotland Yard that?"
"I don't know. Who was on that beat last night?"
"Flack, sir. Was Sir Horace murdered in his own house? I thought he was
in Scotland."
"So did I, but he may have returned--ah, here's the taxi."
Inspector Seldon had been waiting on the steps for the appearance of a
cab from the rank round the corner in response to the shrill blast which
the sergeant had blown on his whistle. The sergeant went to the door of
the station leading into the yard and sharply called:
"Flack!"
In response a police-constable, without helmet or tunic, came running up
the steps from the basement, which was used as a gymnasium.
"Seldon wants you. Get on your tunic as quick as you can. He is in a
devil of a hurry."
Inspector Seldon was seated in the taxi-cab when Flack appeared. He had
been impatiently drumming his fingers on the door of the cab.
"Jump in, man," he said angrily. "What has kept you all this time?"
Flack breathed stertorously to show that he had been running and was out
of breath, but he made no reply to the official rebuke. Inspector Seldon
turned to him and remarked severely:
"Why didn't you let me know that Sir Horace Fewbanks had returned from
Scotland?"
Flack looked astonished.
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