Anthony interrupted him promptly. “What do you mean, Atkins—did she say ‘my father’ or ‘her father’—you appreciate the difference, don’t you?”
Atkins regarded him with an air of pained surprise. “The words she used, sir, were ‘my father’! I took it as ’ow she was alludin’ to ’er own male parent.”
“Thank you, Atkins.” He discovered the exact position of the palm of the porter’s right hand. “You’ve been a great help to me.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s been a real pleasure.”
Inspector Goodall chewed the end of his cigarette. “Some relation of the murdered man, Mr. Bathurst, without a doubt. Fits in with my own theory, too—born the wrong side of the blanket perhaps over in the States somewhere—used the black glasses as a disguise. Worked the two jobs I shouldn’t wonder, in a way that we can’t quite fathom at the moment—there’s a missing link somewhere. Also—where does Mr. Charles Stewart come in?”—he leaned right across in Anthony’s direction—“supposing it affects his inheritance—eh?”
Anthony waved his hand and harked back to the proprietor of Blanchard’s hotel. “Mr. Blanchard—would you be good enough to turn up Mr. and Mrs. Stewart’s account—the one they settled when they went?”
“I’ll go down and get it for you,” said Blanchard. “A matter of a few moments only.”
“After he’s brought you that,” interjected the Inspector, “we’ll go and have a look at the room they occupied.”
Blanchard was as good as his word. “I have what you asked for, sir! What was it in particular you wanted?”
“Refer to the last day of their stay here, will you, Mr. Blanchard—did they lunch here?”