“How old was your father, Mr. Stewart?” he continued.
“Fifty-three in July—on the twenty-second of next month. We have been in England only a matter of a few months.”
“From America, wasn’t it? I remember your coming here.”
“New York—previously we had lived at Washington and Chicago.”
“You the only member of the family living here?”
“My father’s ward, Miss Lennox, lives here also. She is like a member of the family.”
“Who else is in the house?”
“My father’s private secretary—a Mr. Morgan Llewellyn—Butterworth, the butler, and his wife, who acts as housekeeper, and the servants.”
“Any idea, Mr. Stewart, who was the last person to see your father alive?”
“I don’t know that I can answer that question with certainty. I had been out during the evening—playing tennis. I returned about a quarter to ten. My father was in here with Colonel Leach-Fletcher—that’s a neighbor of ours—I simply put my head round the door and said ‘Good-night.’ ”