“The most paradoxical and seemingly contradictory things have sometimes the simplest solutions,” remarked Anthony—“when you can find them.”
Mary pressed her hands to her brow. “If I could only think clearly about it,” she cried wearily, “I’m sure the explanation would come to me—but I can’t! I can only repeat what I’ve previously said—I’m certain it’s my handwriting—yet I have no knowledge of the writing beyond that fact.” She turned to Anthony. “You say you found the pieces under the bed? Am I to understand you suspected their existence and were looking for them?”
“Bill was the discoverer, Miss Considine—not I,” replied Anthony. “I haven’t really heard the source of his inspiration.”
“It seemed to me there was just a possibility of picking something up in the bedroom”—I tried to bear my blushing honors with modesty—“so I just had a crawl round. Of course it was a piece of terrific luck. A positive thousand to one shot.” I looked at Anthony. He had relapsed into a chair—thinking hard. His silence seemed to infect the whole room, and Mary and I sat and regarded each other solemnly. Then Anthony astounded us both. I always knew that his mind had the habit of flying off at surprising tangents, and I was a little prepared for the sudden turn it took now.
“How many cars have you in the garage, Miss Considine?” he asked.
She wrinkled up her forehead in surprise.
“Of our own, do you mean, or including everybody’s? I don’t quite follow——”
He regarded her steadily.
“Of your own—belonging to Considine Manor, if you prefer it put that way.”
“Two.”