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Updated: July 23, 2025
I did not dare open the door again, and so I heard no more of the conversation, but I have enough, Mr. Blaine, to interest you, I think." She fumbled with her bag, but the detective laid a detaining hand on her arm. "Never mind the notes now. Go on with your story. What happened after the interview was over?" "That boy Billy went to Mr. Rockamore and told him.
The Honorable Bertrand Rockamore had been found dead on the floor of his den, with a bullet through his head. He would never allow his man to touch his guns, and had been engaged in cleaning one of them, as was his custom, in preparation for his annual shooting trip to Florida, when in some fashion it had been accidentally discharged. "I wonder if I did the right thing!" mused Blaine.
We're all tarred with the same brush. But this is something quite different. We were pretty good pals, Rockamore, so naturally, when I heard something about you which might take a lot of explaining to smooth over, if it got about, I kept my mouth shut.
But I can't quite gather what bearing that insignificant fact has upon your amazing charge this morning." "You are the only son of Gerald Cecil Rockamore, third son of the Earl of Stafford?" The detective did not appear to have heard the protest of the man he was interrogating. "Precisely. But what " "There were, then, four lives between you and the title," Blaine interrupted, tersely.
Rockamore; and demure, fair-haired little Agnes Olson was equally pleased with the prospect of operating a switchboard in the office of Timothy Carlis, the politician. Meantime, back in his office, Henry Blaine was receiving the personal report of Guy Morrow. "The old man seems to be strictly on the level," he was saying.
On the other hand, it is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be used against you." "Fire away, Mr. Blaine!" Rockamore seated himself and stretched out his legs luxuriously to the open wood-fire. "I don't fancy that anything I shall say will militate against me. I was an idiot to lose my temper this morning, but I hate being made game of.
Surely such astute, far-seeing men as Mallowe and Rockamore are, at least, would not have attempted such a gigantic fraud if they'd anticipated the possibility of being discovered!
Now the whole situation merely amuses me, but it may become tiresome. Let's get it over." "Mr. Rockamore, you were born in Staffordshire, England, were you not? Near a place called Handsworth?" The unexpected question brought a meditative frown to the other man's brow, but he replied readily enough: "Yes, at Handsworth Castle, to be exact.
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