“I thought so, Dr. Irechester, but—­”

“Oh yes, clearly!  I’m far from making any complaint.”  He gave her a courteous little bow, but it was one which plainly closed the subject.  Indeed he passed by her and joined a group that had gathered on the hearthrug, leaving her alone.

So she stood for a minute, oppressed by a growing uneasiness.  Irechester said nothing, but surely meant something of import?  He mocked her, but not idly or out of wantonness.  He seemed almost to warn her.  What could there be to warn her about?  He had laid an odd emphasis on the word “placed”; he had repeated it.  Who had “placed” her there?  Mr. Saffron?  Or—­

Alec Naylor broke in on her uneasy meditation.  “It’s a clinking night, Doctor Mary,” he observed.  “Do you mind if I walk Miss Walford home, instead of her going with you in your car, you know?  It’s only a couple of miles and—­”

“Do you think your leg can stand it?”

He laughed.  “I’ll cut the thing off, if it dares to make any objection!”

CHAPTER VII

A GENTLEMANLY STRANGER

On this same Christmas Day Sergeant Hooper was feeling morose and discontented; not because he was alone in the world (a situation comprising many advantages), nor on the score of his wages, which were extremely liberal; nor on account of the “old blighter’s”—­that is, Mr. Saffron’s—­occasional outbursts of temper, these being in the nature of the case and within the terms of the contract; nor, finally, by reason of Beaumaroy’s airy insolence, since from his youth up the Sergeant was hardened to unfavorable comments on his personal appearance, trifling vulgarities which a man of sense could afford to ignore.

No; the winter of his discontent—­a bitter winter—­was due to the conviction, which had been growing in his mind for some time, that he was only in half the secret, and that not the more profitable half.  He knew that the old blighter had to be humored in certain small ways, as, for example, in regard to the combination knife-and-fork—­and the reason for it.  But, first, he did not know what happened inside the Tower; he had never seen the inside of it; the door was always locked; he was never invited to accompany his masters when they repaired thither by day, and he was not on the premises by night.  And, secondly, he did not understand the Wednesday journeys to London, and he had never seen the inside of Beaumaroy’s brown bag—­that, like the Tower door, was always locked.  He had handled it once, just before the pair set out for London one Wednesday.  Beaumaroy, a careless man sometimes, in spite of the cunning which Dr. Irechester attributed to him, had left it on the parlor table while he helped Mr. Saffron on with his coat in the passage, and the Sergeant had swiftly and surreptitiously lifted it up.  It was very light, obviously empty, or, at all events, holding only featherweight contents.  He had never got near it when it came back from town; then it always went straight into the Tower and had the key turned on it forthwith.