“Upstairs.”
“Not in the kitchen?”
“No, sir.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“That’s a pity. I thought you might be able to tell me how so many wine and whiskey bottles came to be standing on the kitchen table.”
I stared at him, dazed. Then I remembered the two small glasses on the little table across the room, and instinctively glanced at them. But no whiskey had been drunk out of them—the odor of anisette is unmistakable.
“You carry the key to the wine-cellar?” he asked.
I considered a moment. I did not know what to make of bottles on the kitchen table. These women and bottles! They abhorred wine; they had reason to, God knows; T remembered the dinner and all that had signalised it, and felt my confusion grow. But a question had been asked, and I must answer it. It would not do for me to hesitate about a matter of this kind. Only what was the question. Something about a key. I had no key; the cellar had been ransacked without my help; should I acknowledge this?
“The keys were given up by the janitor yesterday,” I managed to stammer at last. “But I did not bring them here to-night. They are in my rooms at home.”