“Mayn’t I see it?”
“Not now. Some time.”
“Stand on the stairs, the way the picture is painted.”
Humouring his whim, Beatrice went up three steps and posed her hand on the balustrade, as Eric had painted her.
“Beautiful. Stannard was a wonderful genius. I want that picture, dear. I don’t care if it is unfinished. If I can’t have the original—yet—will you give me the duplicate?”
“No, oh, no!” and Beatrice looked startled. “I’d hate you to have it, with this staircase and all——”
“I thought you loved this staircase——”
“As an architectural gem, yes. Mr. Faulkner prided himself on its design. But now—Eric’s death——”
“Oh, yes, you stood right there, when your attention was first drawn to the footman’s queer actions, didn’t you?”
“Yes; I was just on this very step when I heard that faint moan—oh, don’t remind me of it.”