Dora looked thoroughly perplexed. She glanced from the window, as if of a mind to call Michael, but he was not in sight.
“And I may as well tell you,” March continued, his iron hand still in a velvet glove, “that you’d better let us have our way, without raising any objection. For you can’t stop us, and you’d only create unpleasantness for yourself.”
Dora seemed to see reason, and she nodded her head in assent.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked, in a subdued voice.
“Go with us and show us the rooms. That’s all. We shall not really disturb anything and it will save Miss Remsen trouble if we can get through before her return.”
So Dora went ahead, with an air of obedience under protest that showed itself in her dragging footsteps and her sombre eyes.
“This is the living room,” she said, indicating the room we already knew.
March stepped inside. He quickly scanned the appointments, but he had seen them before and paid real attention only to the bookcase. This produced nothing of interest, however, and we went on through a cozy little writing room to the dining room, a delightful cheery room hung with chintzes and gay with bowls of flowers.
To my amazement, the detective devoted his scrutiny to the dining table. He examined the wood of it carefully and then drawing a lens from his pocket peered through it in true Sherlock Holmes fashion.
I wondered if this was meant to impress the staring Dora, but March seemed to be interested on his own account, and he pocketed his lens with a sigh of satisfaction.