"Can't say yet," he replied.
As they drove up to the Hall, Heyton was seen standing just within the threshold, as if waiting for them.
"Lord Heyton, the Marquess's son," whispered the Inspector.
Mr.Jacobs nodded; he did not direct a piercing glance at Heyton's pale face and bloodshot eyes, with their swollen lids; in fact, he did not appear to notice anything, as he went forward, hat in hand.
A few words of commonplace greeting were exchanged; Mr.Jacobs expressed his sympathy in a low voice, devoid of any acuteness, and Heyton drew a breath of relief, as he led the way into the library; to him it seemed that the man from Scotland Yard looked rather stupid than otherwise.

Mr.
Jacobs took a seat, and Heyton, of his own accord, repeated, almost word for word, the account he had given to the Inspector.
"It's my opinion," he wound up, "that you'll find the man amongst those blackguard gipsies." "Yes, my lord ?" responded the detective, interrogatively.

Then he went upstairs to the dressing-room.

"I think I should like to be alone in here, my lord, if you don't mind," he said.
He took the key from the Inspector, and went in, closing the door after him.

When he came out, his round, innocent-looking face was grave, but revealed nothing.
"Has the Marquess recovered consciousness ?" he asked.
"Not yet, I am sorry to say," replied Heyton.