Captain Steele was at The Folly, as the house was always called,—in spite of the Stannards’ attempts to use the more attractive name of Stanhurst,—on the day after the inquest, and Detective Roberts was also there and one or two other policemen and reporters.
Steele had appropriated the small Reception Room next the studio for his quarters, and was going over with great care the reports of the proceedings and evidence of the day before.
“You see, Bobsy,” he said, “the burglar stunt won’t work. I’ve tried, and Carter, here, he’s tried, and we couldn’t come within a mile of getting in or out among that art junk in the window, without making noise and commotion enough to wake the dead.”
“I know it,” assented Bobsy. “Knew it all the time. Let’s cut out Mr. Burglar. Also, Blake was on the door all the evening, and he would have looked in the studio in case of a racket.”
“Sure. Now, I want to fix the time of the stab act. They all say about half past eleven, but nobody knows exactly.”
“Of course they don’t. People in evening togs never know what time it is. Why should they? They don’t have to punch a clock. I think the footman would just about know, though. Servants have their hours, you know. And anyway, let’s get that man in here.”
Blake was summoned, and, though impassive as usual, seemed ready to answer questions.
He retold his story, with no appreciable deviation from what he had testified at the inquest.
“Are you sure it all occurred at half past eleven?” asked Steele.
“Yes, sir. I heard the chimes in the studio just before the light went out.”