Mrs. Altham stooped like a hawk on the quarry.
“You mean Major Ames,” she said. “I’m sure I never pass the house but what he’s either going in or coming out, and he does a good deal more of the going in than of the other, in my opinion.”
Henry penetrated into the meaning of what sounded a rather curious achievement and corroborated.
“He was there this morning,” he said, “on the doorstep at eleven o’clock, or it might have been a quarter-past, with a bouquet of chrysanthemums big enough to do all Mrs. Ames’ decorations at St. Barnabas. What is the matter, my dear?”
For Mrs. Altham had literally bounced out of her chair, and was pointing at him a forefinger that trembled with a nameless emotion.
“At a quarter-past one, or a few minutes later,” she said, “that bouquet was lying in the middle of the road. Let us say twenty minutes past one, because I came straight home, took off my hat, and was ready for lunch. It was more like a haystack than a bouquet: I’m sure if I hadn’t stepped over it, I should have tripped and fallen. And to think that I never mentioned it to you, Henry! How things piece themselves together, if you give them a chance! Now did you actually see Major Ames carry it into the house?”
“The door was opened to him, just as I came opposite,” said Henry firmly, “and in he went, bouquet and all.”
“Then somebody must have thrown it out again,” said Mrs. Altham.
She held up one hand, and ticked off names on its fingers.
“Who was then in the house?” she said. “Mrs. Evans, Dr. Evans, Major Ames. Otherwise the servants—how they can find work for six servants in that house I can’t understand—and servants would never have thrown chrysanthemums into the street. So we needn’t count the servants. Now can you imagine Mrs. Evans throwing away a bouquet that Major Ames had brought her? If so, I envy you your power of imagination. Or——”