As Miss Prall’s maids did not sleep in the house, Bates opened the door and found Corson there, with a bland but determined look on his face.
“Sorry to trouble you people,” he said, stepping inside without being asked, “but I’ve some talking to do, and the sooner the quicker.”
He smiled, importantly, and, selecting a comfortable chair, seated himself deliberately and looked in silence from one to another.
“Well,” said Miss Prall, stiffly, “what do you want to know?”
The angular, spare figure of the spinster, upright in a straight-backed chair, was not of a demeanor to put a man at ease, but Corson showed no uneasiness, and almost lolled in his seat as he cast a slow glance at her.
“Naturally,” he began, “what I want to know is, and what I propose to find out is, who killed Sir Herbert Binney. And what I want to know here is, anything any of you can tell me that will throw any light, side light, or full glare, on the question.”
“We don’t know anything that is illuminating in any way,” Miss Prall informed him.
“I will be the judge of the powers of illumination if you will tell me what you know,” was the suave retort. “Will you make a statement or shall I ask questions?”
“Neither,” and Letitia Prall rose. “You may bid us good-night, sir. This is no time to intrude upon the ladies of a family,—especially a family in deep and sudden mourning.”
“You weren’t mourning very deeply as I entered.” Corson made no move to get up, although Bates rose as his aunt did. “I think, Miss Prall, you’d better sit down again, and you, too, Mr Bates. This may be a lengthy confab.”