"Evidently not. And he didn't know the Kingdons' address until he got here."
"No," agreed Godfrey; "no. Well, you've evidently done everything that could be done, Mr. Haynes. Perhaps something more will come out at the inquest. It opens at ten o'clock, doesn't it?"
"Yes; here are your subpœnas," and he handed us each a paper.
"Very well," said Godfrey. "We'll be present, of course. Where will it be held?"
"I thought it best to hold it right here," answered Haynes, "I want the jury to be on the scene."
"But won't it disturb Miss Kingdon?"
"Not at all. There's a large front room which will answer nicely—and I'll have the police keep everybody out who hasn't some business there. Here's the room," and he opened a door and led the way into the room beyond.
It was the one into which Miss Kingdon had shown me on the morning of my memorable interview with her, and involuntarily my eyes sought the portrait on the wall opposite the front windows. It was still there—as alluring, astonishing, compelling as ever. Indeed, as I gazed at it now, it seemed even more striking than it had when I saw it first.
"Look at that," I said, turning to Godfrey, but there was no need for me to call his attention to the portrait. He had already seen it, and was gazing at it in rapt admiration.
"Whose is it?" he demanded, at last. "Who painted it?"