“That may well be. You have a logical mind, Mrs. Faulkner. I say this to you, because I want your help. If I should tell you that I do not suspect Mrs. Stannard or Miss Vernon or Barry Stannard, would you then be willing to assist me in my investigation?”
Beatrice Faulkner looked at the detective an instant, and then said, in a low tone, “Mr. Courtenay?”
“Hush! Don’t mention names. Let us close this conversation right here, and I will tell you at some other time what I want you to do for me.”
Beatrice went away, and locking the door after her exit, Alan Ford remained alone in the studio for an hour or more.
Then he went for a walk which lasted another hour, and when he joined the family at luncheon, he was merely a courteous, friendly guest, with no suggestion of a detective.
In the afternoon, he requested permission to go over all of Eric Stannard’s papers and correspondence and spent his time until dusk at this work.
At tea time, he rejoined the others, and during the tea hour he talked of the visit of Orienta and her wonderful performance. Over and over it was discussed, and at each fresh detail or opinion Alan Ford grew more and more interested.
“Tell me of her costume,” he said, at last, when it seemed he had heard about every other bit of possible interest.
“It was beautiful!” exclaimed Natalie. “A long, full robe of a sort of sage green——”
“What material?” asked Ford, and Barry looked at him in surprise. What kind of a great detective was this who inquired concerning the texture of a costume?