“Never mind,” said Ford, “this will do. I only wanted to get a mental picture of how she looked,” and tearing the picture into strips he tossed them into a waste basket.
The talk drifted to the house and its architecture.
“The whole house is a gem,” said Alan Ford, enthusiastically, “but the staircase is a marvel. Nowhere in this country have I seen its equal. Your husband studied abroad, Mrs. Faulkner?”
“For years. He took great pride in building this house, as he intended it to be a masterpiece.”
“Which it certainly is. Have you the plans of it? I should like to see them. Architecture is one of my hobbies.”
“No, I haven’t the plans, Mr. Ford.”
“Oh, of course, they went to Mr. Stannard with the title deeds. Have you them, Mrs. Stannard?”
“No, we never had them. I never thought about them.”
“Doubtless they are among Mr. Stannard’s belongings. They must have been given to him. It doesn’t matter. I oughtn’t to take time to look at them, anyway. But one thing I do want to see, and that is the picture of Mrs. Faulkner that Mr. Stannard was engaged on at the time of his death. I’m told it is an example of his best work. May I have a glimpse of it?”
Beatrice Faulkner looked a little flattered at this request, but she said only, “Certainly, Mr. Ford. It is in the studio.”