“We must have two men in this house at once. What excuse can we offer for planting detectives on Maitland?” Elk pursed his lips. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “We shall have to get a warrant before we arrest him; we could easily get another warrant to search the house; but beyond that I fear we can’t go, unless he asks for protection.” “Then put him under arrest,” said Dick promptly. “What is the charge?” “Hold him on suspicion of being associated with the Frogs, and if necessary move him to the nearest police-station. But it has to be done at once.” Elk was perturbed. “It isn’t a small matter to arrest a millionaire, you know, Captain Gordon. I daresay in America it is simple, and I am told you could pinch the President if you found him with a flask in his pocket. But here it is a little different.” How very different it was, Dick discovered when he made application in private for the necessary warrants. At four o’clock they were delivered to him by the clerk of a reluctant magistrate, and, accompanied by police officers, he went back to Maitland’s palatial home. The footman who admitted them said that Mr. Maitland was lying down and that he did not care to disturb him. In proof, he sent for a second footman, who confirmed the statement. “Which is his room?” said Dick Gordon. “I am a police officer and I want to see him.” “On the second floor, sir.” He showed them to an electric lift, which carried the five to the second floor. Opposite the lift grille was a large double door, heavily burnished and elaborately gilded. “Looks more like the entrance to a theatre,” said Elk in an undertone. Dick knocked. There was no answer. He knocked louder. Still there was no answer. And then, to Elk’s surprise, the young man launched himself at the door with all his strength. There was a sound of splitting wood and the door parted. Dick stood in the entrance, rooted to the ground. Ezra Maitland lay half on the bed, his legs dragging over the side. At his feet was the prostrate figure of the old woman whom he called Matilda. They were both dead, and the pungent fumes of cordite still hung in a blue cloud beneath the ceiling. CHAPTER XXIX THE FOOTMAN DICK ran to the bedside, and one glance at the still figures told him all he wanted to know. “Both shot,” he said, and looked up at the filmy cloud under the ceiling. “May have happened any time—a quarter of an hour ago. This stuff hangs about for hours.” “Hold every servant in the house,” said Elk in an undertone to the men who were with him. A doorway led to a smaller bedroom, which was evidently that occupied by Maitland’s sister. “The shot was fired from this entrance,” said Dick. “Probably a silencer was used, but we shall hear about that later.” He searched the floor and found two spent cartridges of a heavy calibre automatic.