"Ricky, do you remember or did you ever hear of any 'Stannard' being there at the time?" "No. Never."
"Nor I. In anything I've ever heard, or — read."
"But what is all this?" demanded Ricky. His pipe had gone out, and he put it down on the table. "You're as fretted as though you'd seen a whole crowd of ghosts. My governor's been dead for twenty years. It's a pity about mother; I'd like to wring Stannard's neck; but a little tact and well smooth it over."
"We can't smooth over the police," Jenny said.
She rose to her feet and appealed to Martin.
"I–I haven't said anything about what Sir Henry told us yesterday. I mean, at Willaby's. Partly because I was afraid of the rumpus, and partly because I never can tell whether he's serious or not"
Jenny turned to Ricky, and nodded towards the closed door of the other parlour.
"The police are here," she added. "They're in that room now. I saw them go in when I came here. There's a Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard, and the other man — well, they call him the Old Maestro. They're here to investigate. Sir Henry thinks your father was murdered."
The word, on Jenny's lips, sounded incongruous.
"Nonsense!" said Ricky. "He got vertigo and pitched over the parapet"