H.M.'s preparations were very businesslike. After putting down the oilskin on the sofa, he again pushed the sofa back against the wall, so that the center of the room was clear. He carried the bridge lamp on its long cord over to the easy chair where Vicky Fane had been sitting on the night of the murder.
Clearing the mahogany telephone table, he brought this to the center of the room.
"We'd better make sure this is exactly as it was," he grunted. "Get somebody."
Ann Browning, who had again put on her white sports dress, was coming down the stairs on her way to the kitchen. Courtney went out and stopped her.
"They want you in there. They're going to show how Arthur Fane was killed."
"I told you," retorted Ann through stiff lips, "that I never wanted to speak to you again as long as.." She paused. "They're going to do what?"
"Reconstruct the murder, I suppose you'd call it. Look here, Ann, I swear I didn't mean anything!"
"You thought I did it. You know you did."
"I never did! I only-"
"Come in here, both of you," roared H.M.