"It's all a mistake," said the druggist suavely, though his eyes slid uneasily to and fro. "I just came in to get some books I left here earlier in the afternoon."
"With a revolver, eh?" said Roger. "Speak up, Hindenburg, what's the big idea?"
"It's not my revolver," said Weintraub. "It's Metzger's."
"Where's this suitcase of yours?" said Roger. "We're going to have a look at it."
"It's all a stupid mistake," said Weintraub. "I left a suitcase of old books here for Metzger, because I expected to go out of town this afternoon. He called for it, and your young woman wouldn't give it to him. He came to me, and I came down here to tell her it was all right."
"Is that Metzger?" said Roger, pointing to the bearded man who was trying to break Aubrey's grip. "Gilbert, don't choke that man, we want him to do some explaining."
Aubrey got up, picked his revolver from the floor where he had dropped it, and prodded the chef to his feet.
"Well, you swine," he said, "how did you enjoy falling downstairs the other evening? As for you, Herr Weintraub, I'd like to know what kind of prescriptions you make up in that cellar of yours."
