She turned and called. "It is Mr. Jones—a friend of Mr. Lennox." She turned again. "I will be back in a minute."
Beyond, in the room with the piano and the painted warrior, the musician lay on a sofa, bundled in a rug. There was not much space on the sofa, yet, as Jones entered, he seemed to recede. Then, cavernously, he spoke.
"Forgive me for not rising. This business has been too much for me. Sit down."
Jones put his hat on the table and drew a chair. "I am sorry it has upset you. It amounts to nothing."
Perplexedly the musician repeated it. "Nothing?"
"I was referring to our friend Lennox."
"You call his arrest nothing?"
"Well, everything is relative. It may seem unusual to be held without bail and yet, if we all were, it would be commonplace."
The musician plucked at the rug. "I suppose everybody thinks he did it?"
"Everybody, no. I don't think so and I am sure your daughter doesn't."