A flash of anger brought Glass's cold eyes to life. "The scorner is an abomination to men!" he said.

"That's enough!" said the Sergeant. "You remember you're speaking to your superior officer, if you please, my lad!"

"A scorner," pursued Glass inexorably, "loveth not one that reproveth him: neither will he go unto the wise. The man Budd came openly to the front door, making no secret of his name."

The Sergeant grunted. "It's a point, I grant you. May not have been a premeditated murder, though. Fetch the butler in."

"Joseph Simmons is well known to me for a godly member," said Glass, on his way to the door.

"All right, all right! Fetch him!"

The butler was discovered in the hall, still looking rather pale. When he entered the study he cast a nervous look towards the desk, and drew an audible sigh of relief when he saw the chair behind it unoccupied.

"Your name?" asked the Sergeant briskly.

Joseph Simmons, Sergeant."

"Occupation?"

"I am - I was employed as Mr. Fletcher's butler."

"How long have you been with him?"

"Six-and-a-half years, Sergeant."

"And you state," pursued the Sergeant, consulting Glass's notes, "that you last saw your master alive at about 9 p.m., when you showed a Mr. Abraham Budd into this room. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Sergeant. I have the person's card here," said Simmons, holding out a piece of pasteboard.

The Sergeant took it, and read aloud: "Mr. Abraham Budd, 333c Bishopsgate, EC. Well, we know where he's to be found, that's one thing. You state that he wasn't known to you, I see."

"I never laid eyes on the individual before in my life, Sergeant. He was not the type of person I have been in the habit of admitting to the house," said Simmons haughtily.

Glass dispelled this pharisaical attitude with one devastating pronouncement. "Though the Lord be high, yet hath he respect unto the lowly," he said in minatory accents, "but the proud he knoweth afar off."