She stalked away, head in air, stiff as any ramrod.
"Now for Bates," muttered the detective, and touched the bell. "I'll swear he's got something on his mind!"
In this surmise he was perfectly correct. The old butler did have something that was troubling him—a matter so grave and serious that they did not finish discussing it until the study was dusk and sounds from the dining-room indicated that Betty Blake was helpfully setting the table in the unduly prolonged absence of its regular attendant. When their talk was ended, it was the detective who wore a perplexed expression, while Bates had lost the troubled, almost haunted look that had been in his eyes since the death of Simon Varr.
Creighton hurried to his room to prepare for dinner, and when he glanced from his window he observed for the first time that the weather was about to exhibit itself in a petulant, ill-humored mood. Black storm-clouds were rolling up, a chill, gusty wind was rattling the windows and a heavy spat of rain dashed against the glass as he turned away. It would be a nasty night.
Miss Ocky remarked on the fact when she joined him in the dining-room. She looked unhappy.
"I hate cold," she told him. "Had enough of it in my life. I am going to have a fire lighted in the living-room. If you want to talk to me this evening you'll have to put up with having your toes toasted."
He assured her that toasted toes were his favorite delicacy. Then he nodded to a third place set at the table and raised his eyebrows.
"For Copley, but he hasn't turned up."
"He may be dining with his new father-in-law," suggested the detective. "Or with Jason Bolt, talking business."
She did not pursue the subject, but later, when they were seated before a crackling fire in the living-room, she attacked him briskly.