She stared at him with big round blue eyes.
“I didn’t,” she said blankly. “No, I didn’t. I just naturally thought it was ‘he.’ Of course it was ‘he.’ It had to be.” She swallowed, and added almost pleadingly, “didn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” said the Saint, flatly and dispassionately.
“Now wait a minute,” said Freddie Pellman, breaking one of the longest periods of plain listening that Simon had yet known him to maintain. “What is this?”
The Saint took a cigarette from a package on the bedside table and lighted it with care and deliberation. He knew that their eyes were all riveted on him now, but he figured that a few seconds’ suspense would do them no harm.
“I’ve walked around outside,” he said, “and I didn’t see anyone making a getaway. That wasn’t conclusive, of course, but it was an interesting start. Since then I’ve been through the whole house. I’ve checked every door and window in the place. Angelo did it first, but I did it again to make sure. Nothing’s been touched. There isn’t an opening anywhere where even a cat could have got in and got out again. And I looked in all the closets and under the beds too, and I didn’t find any strangers hiding around.”
“But somebody was here!” Freddie protested. “There’s the knife. You can see it with your own eyes. That proves that Lissa wasn’t dreaming.”
Simon nodded, and his blue eyes were crisp and sardonic.
“Sure it does,” he agreed conversationally. “So it’s a comfort to know that we don’t have to pick a prospective murderer out of a hundred and thirty million people outside. We know that this is strictly a family affair, and you’re going to be killed by somebody who’s living here now.”