"I mean, I was only wonderin' if you were another of 'em who walked into her parlor."
"Only into the parlor."
"Uh-huh. That's what I thought. I want to get this right about last night, because you must 'a' been the last person to see her before the murderer got here. Now, when you and Bohun and Rainger came out here with her, where did you make yourselves comfortable? In here?"
"No. In the bedroom. But we didn't make ourselves comfortable; we didn't even sit down. We left after a very few minutes."
"And when you came back here, as they tell me you did, where were you two?"
"Also in the bedroom. I drank a glass of port with her."
"Right," grunted H. M. absently. "Got a match?"
There was a faint flicker of amusement in Willard's eyes. "Sorry. I gave away my last box to Marcia last night, and I don't carry about that colored kind they supply at the house. Will a lighter do?"
"Just as well," nodded H. M. The corners of his mouth turned down again. He advised gently: "Don't ever get the notion that I'm tryin' to be clever. It's bad policy to advertise suspicion. Either on my part or yours. If I'd had any doubts, I'd have asked for a lighter to begin with. Point of fact, I wanted to look at that fireplace…"
Snapping on the lighter Willard handed him, he looked carefully at the fluffy gray wood-ashes and the few stumps of charred wood. He put his hand under the broad flue, and craned his neck to peer up under it.