steps and rang the bell. He waited patiently until his ring was answered. It was some time before the door swung open. Inside that door Blake saw a solemn-eyed servant in a black spiked-tailed service-coat and gray trousers.
"I want to see Mr. Copeland," was Blake's calmly assured announcement.
"Mr. Copeland is not at home," answered the man in the service-coat. His tone was politely impersonal. His face, too, was impassive. But one quick glance seemed to have appraised the man on the doorstep, to have judged him, and in some way to have found him undesirable.
"But this is important," said Blake.
"I 'm sorry, sir," answered the impersonal-eyed servant. Blake made an effort to keep himself in perfect control. He knew that his unkempt figure had not won the good-will of that autocratic hireling.
"I 'm from Police Headquarters," the man on the doorstep explained, with the easy mendacity that was a heritage of his older days.
