“Yes; or sometimes for three days, so cook said.”
“What time in the evening would he come and go?”
“About half-past ten he always came, and a little before eight he left.”
“Do you mean that he arrived and left at the same time on each visit?”
“Yes, always about the same time.”
“After dark?”
“No. Just at those times. It was the same summer and winter. At least, that’s all what cook told me. We talked about it many a time. She thought he was balmy.”
French was somewhat puzzled by this information. The whole story had what he called with a fine disregard for metaphorical purity, a “fishy ring.” At first it had looked uncommonly like as if Mr. Vane were paying clandestine visits to his own house, and, if so, he might well be the man the old stage doorkeeper had spoken of, and still have another establishment elsewhere. But this last answer seemed to suggest some other explanation of Vane’s mysterious movements. After a pause, French went on:
“Did it ever strike you he was trying to keep his visits secret?”
“I can’t say it did,” the girl answered with apparent regret. “Cook never said that. But,” more hopefully, “it might have been that, mightn’t it?”