Hardcastle was turning over the stack of old oil-paintings in tarnished frames.
"Family portraits?"
"Yes."
"You mistrusted the room yourself, Sir Walter?"
"After Nurse Forrester's death I did. Not before. But while attaching no importance myself to the tradition, I respected it."
"Nobody else ever spent a night here after the lady's death?"
"Nobody. Of that I am quite certain."
"Have you not left the house since?"
"Frequently. I generally spend March, April, and May on the Continent—in France or Italy. But the house is never closed, and my people are responsible to me. The room is always locked, and when I am not in residence Abraham Masters, my butler, keeps the key. He shares my own feelings so far as the Grey Room is concerned."
The detective nodded. He was standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets.