Paradise entered with calm dignity and stood in the brightly lighted room, his shock of snow-white hair lending him an air of stern respectability.
“You rang, sir?” he said.
“Yes,” Kirk replied. “We’ll have tea, Paradise. Five of us here—” He stopped. The butler’s eyes were on Inspector Duff, and his face was suddenly as white as his hair.
There was a moment of silence. “Hello, Paradise,” Duff said quietly.
The butler muttered something, and turned as though to go out.
“Just a moment!” The Inspector’s voice was steely cold. “This is a surprise, my man. A surprise for both of us, I fancy. When I last saw you, you were standing in the dock at Old Bailey.” Paradise bowed his head. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have been inclined to give you away, Paradise, if you had behaved yourself. But you’ve been opening mail—haven’t you? You’ve been tampering with a letter addressed to Sir Frederic Bruce?”
“Yes, sir, I have.” The servant’s voice was very low.
“So I understand,” Duff continued. He turned to Barry Kirk. “I’m sorry to distress you, Mr. Kirk. I believe Paradise has been a good servant?”
“The best I ever had,” Kirk told him.
“He was always a good servant,” went on Duff. “As I recall, that fact was brought out clearly at the trial. A competent, faithful man—he had many references to prove it. But unfortunately a few years ago, in England, there was some suspicion that he had put hydrocyanic acid in a lady’s tea.”
“What an odd place for hydrocyanic acid,” said Kirk. “But then, of course, I speak without knowing the lady.”
“The lady was his wife,” Duff explained. “It seemed to some of us that he had rather overstepped a husband’s privileges. He was brought to trial—”
Paradise raised his head. “Nothing was ever proved,” he said firmly. “I was acquitted.”
“Yes, our case collapsed,” admitted Inspector Duff. “That doesn’t often happen, Mr. Kirk, but it did in this instance. Technically, at least, Paradise can not be adjudged guilty. In the eyes of the law, I mean. And for that reason I might have been inclined to keep all this to myself, if I had not heard of his queer work with that letter. Tell me, Paradise—do you know anything about Eve Durand?”
“I have never heard the name before, sir.”
“Have you any information in the matter of an old murder in Ely Place—the murder of Hilary Galt?”
“None whatever, sir.”
“But you opened an envelope addressed to Sir Frederic Bruce and substituted a blank sheet for the letter you found inside. I think you had better explain, my man.”
“Yes, sir. I will do so.” The servant turned to Barry Kirk. “This is very painful for me, Mr. Kirk. In the two years I have been with you I have done nothing dishonorable before—before this act. The gentleman has said that I poisoned my wife. I may call attention to the fact that he has some animus in the matter, as he conducted the investigation and was bitterly disappointed when a jury acquitted me. A natural feeling—”
“Never mind that,” said Duff sharply.
“At any rate, sir,” the butler continued to Kirk, “I was acquitted, for the very good reason that I was an innocent man. But I knew that, innocent or not, the fact of my having been tried would not be—er—pleasant news for you.”
“Anything but,” agreed Kirk.
“I thought it would be best if the matter remained in its former oblivion. I have been happy here—it is an excellent post—the very fact of its height above the ground has inspired me. I was always fond of high places. So I was in a bit of a funk, sir, when you told me Sir Frederic Bruce was coming. I had never had the pleasure of his acquaintance, but I’d had my brief moment in the public eye and I feared he might do me the honor to remember me. Well, he arrived and—unfortunately—he recognized me at once. We had a long talk here in this room. I assured him that I had been unjustly accused, that I had never done anything wrong, and that I was living a model life. I begged him to keep my secret. He was a just man. He said he would look into the matter—I presumed he wanted to hear Scotland Yard’s opinion of the evidence—and would let me know his decision later. And there the matter stood, sir, on the night Sir Frederic met his unhappy end.”
“Ah, yes,” said Kirk. “I begin to see.”
“What I did later was done from a misguided wish to retain your respect and confidence, sir. A messenger from Cook’s put into my hand that packet of letters, and I saw on the top what I thought was the dreaded missive from Scotland Yard. If I may be allowed to say so, I went a bit balmy then. I believed that Sir Frederic had cabled about me to the Yard, and that this was the answer. It would no doubt fall into the hands of the police—”
“It was too early for any answer yet,” Kirk told him.
“How could I be sure, sir? In this day of the airmail and other time-saving devices. I determined to have a look at that letter, and if it did not concern me, to put it back in place—”
“But it didn’t concern you, Paradise,” said Kirk.
“Not directly, sir. However, it mentioned that Inspector Duff was in New York. I had enjoyed the honor of Inspector Duff’s personal attention in my—er—my ordeal, and I was panic-stricken. The local police, reading the letter, might send
