"Tempted, perhaps; that's all."
"Suppose it was some one who had a claim on you—a sister or brother or child?"
"You must ask that of some unfortunate sleuth with a family. My nearest relative is a third cousin who lives in Chicago but has nevertheless shown no criminal tendency to date. I'm remarkably well-protected from any potential struggle between duty and inclination." He smiled, and added apologetically, "Detective ethics is a pretty complicated subject to discuss, and I'm afraid it isn't getting on with the problem of who stole a notebook from Simon Varr's desk."
"Of course it isn't—and I'm much more interested in seeing you attack that! But I warn you our conversation is only postponed!"
They entered the study, where Creighton went straight to the window and stood looking out at the now devastated garden where Simon Varr had been found.
"Who did find him, by the way?" he voiced a sudden thought.
"Katie, the cook. She came down first, as usual, and saw a man lying flat on his back in the tomato patch. Her first idea was that some one had taken a drop too much and had strayed there and gone to sleep, so she went up to Bates' room and routed him out. He came down and discovered the awful truth—and he behaved wonderfully. He seemed to know just what had to be done, and he actually managed to keep the news from the family until official permission had been received to bring the body into the house. Poor Lucy—my sister—was at least spared the thought of his lying out there."
"Who saw him last—in the house, I mean, of course?"
"Bates, who brought him a decanter of whisky here to the study, wished him good-night and left him."
"What time was that? Did the butler notice?"