“But what is the good of all these vague theories,” cried the banker, impatiently, “when I have told you that I saw Arthur with the coronet in his hands?”
“Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to that. About this girl, Miss Holder. You saw her return by the kitchen door, I presume?”
“Yes; when I went to see if the door was fastened for the night I met her slipping in. I saw the man, too, in the gloom.”
“Do you know him?”
“Oh yes; he is the green-grocer who brings our vegetables round. His name is Francis Prosper.”
“He stood,” said Holmes, “to the left of the door—that is to say, farther up the path than is necessary to reach the door?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And he is a man with a wooden leg?”
Something like fear sprang up in the young lady’s expressive black eyes. “Why, you are like a magician,” said she. “How do you know that?” She smiled, but there was no answering smile in Holmes’s thin, eager face.
“I should be very glad now to go up-stairs,” said he. “I shall probably wish to go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps I had better take a look at the lower windows before I go up.”