Blanchard’s eyes traveled down the columns of the account. Then he shook his head. “No, sir, apparently they did not—it must have been one of the days when they were out—one of the days I mentioned!”
Anthony looked across at Goodall. The latter smiled. “Testing Mr. Daventry’s theory, aren’t you—and it holds good—eh?”
“What about that bedroom, Goodall?”
“Just what I was thinking,” said the latter, rising from his seat. “Mr. Blanchard, we should like to have a look at the bedroom that Mr. and Mrs. Stewart occupied while they were staying here—I hope no newcomer is in it.”
Blanchard was all attention. “Nobody at all, Inspector. The room is as they left it—except that the chambermaid may have tidied it up.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” groaned Goodall. “That gentle little operation known as ‘tidying up’—however, we’ll hope for the best.”
Blanchard referred to a book. “Number fifty-four,” he announced. “I’ll take you up.”
Goodall turned to his assistant. “Stay here, Waring—I don’t expect to be very long”—then followed the other two upstairs. It was a large room, furnished with wardrobe, dressing-table, wash-hand stand, double bed—half a dozen chairs, one wicker arm-chair and a box-divan. Every piece of furniture was subjected by Goodall to a thorough investigation. But they yielded nothing. He then went to the various ornaments of the china trinket-set that stood on the dressing-table. They were all empty—as was the grate. Anthony went to the wardrobe.
“Nothing here, either, Inspector,” he declared. The Inspector came and tried the lower drawers. They also were all empty.
“Drawn a proper blank—as I thought,” muttered Goodall. “Everything that might have whispered the words of the chorus to us has been ‘tidied up.’ What have you got there, Mr. Bathurst?”