Inspector French, attended by a
policeman, stepped out. The former looked searchingly at Quest.
"Well, my boy, what are you doing here?" he asked.
"I cannot answer get," Quest replied, in broken English. "Ten minutes
already have I wasted. I have knocked at all the doors."
French smiled.
"You can hop it, Dutchie," he advised. "By-the-bye, when was that order
for vegetables given?" he added, frowning for a moment.
"It is three times a week the same," Quest explained, whipping the cloth
from the basket. "No word has been sent to alter anything."
The Inspector pushed him hurriedly in the direction of the street.
"You run along home," he said, "and tell your master that he had better
leave off delivering goods here for the present."
Quest went off, grumbling. He walked with the peculiar waddle affected by
young Dutchmen of a certain class, and was soon out of sight round the
corner of the street. French opened the door with a masterkey and secured
it carefully, leaving one of his men to guard it. He searched the rooms on
the ground floor and finally ascended to Quest's study. The Professor was
still enjoying his cigar.
"Say, where's Quest?" the Inspector asked promptly.
"Have you let him out already?" the Professor replied, in a tone of mild
surprise. "I thought he was in the Tombs prison."
The Inspector pressed on without answering. Every room in the house was
ransacked. Presently he came back to the room where the Professor was
still sitting.
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