The inspector sat down. “A very pretty room this,” he began conversationally. “I wonder if I am right in thinking that you are Mrs. Hoyle?”
“Oh, dear, no, sir.” The woman laughed. “I am only Mr. Hoyle's housekeeper. I have lived with him ever since he came to Burford.”
“And that must be a dozen years or more ago now. And I haven't seen him a dozen times, I should say,” the inspector went on. “Dear, dear, how time flies! His daughter must be grown up, I suppose,” he went on, examining the pens before him with meticulous care.
“Miss Cecily? Oh, yes; a fine-looking young lady too. She will be here for good very soon.”
Meanwhile John Steadman, standing near the door, was glancing appraisingly round the room. It was essentially a man's room. The chairs, square solid table, sideboard and writing-table were all of oak, very strong, the few easy chairs were leather covered and capacious, there was nothing unnecessary in the room. Near the French window looking on to the garden at the back of the house there stood an easel with an untidy pile of sketches piled one on top of the other upon it. A table close at hand held more sketches, tubes of paint, a palette and various paint brushes. Steadman walked across and took one of the water-colours from the easel.
“I like this,” he said, holding it from him at arm's length. “It is a charming little view of one of the forest glades near here, taken at sunset. Is there any possibility of this being for sale?”
“Well, I don't rightly know, sir,” the housekeeper said, coming over to him. “Mr. Hoyle do sell some of his pictures, I know. But it is always in London. I have never known him do it down here.”
John Steadman smiled.
“Well, I shouldn't think there would be many customers down here. But I could do with a couple. This one—and another to make a pair with it.”
“Well, sir, perhaps you will write to Mr. Hoyle about it,” the housekeeper suggested. “I couldn't say anything about it.”