“You’re not a real detective,” I declared, solemnly.
“Why not?” and he glowered at me.
“Because you look like a detective. You’re tall, and dark and hawk-eyed or hawk-nosed, or hawk-somethinged. Now, a real detective must always look utterly unlike the detective of fiction, and you’re the very image of Sherlock Holmes.”
“And I glory in it. But if you flatter yourself you’re my Watson, you must cultivate the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit.”
“I thought we were eliminating,” put in Maud. “Who have we eliminated so far?”
“Your English is deplorable,” Kee told her, “but I can deduce your meaning. Well, how about eliminating Ames?”
“No,” I cried, “he’s the one not to eliminate. There are too many counts against him. I say, let’s begin at the other end of the line. The lesser servants.”
“Cut out Sally Bray, then,” Moore advised. “That girl never had the nerve to go a-murdering all by herself.”
“Of course not,” I agreed. “Though she may have gone with some companion.”
“No, it isn’t plausible. As to the servants, all we can say is that they could have had opportunity. The house servants, at any rate, could have had a duplicate key made to the Tracy suite——”