“That will be fine,” he said. “Which is your favourite chair?”
“You know,” she said, “that is a joke. I am so unfamiliar with this room that I haven’t any favourite chair. I’ll have to take the nearest, like Thoreau selected his piece of chicken.”
Then for a few minutes Linda talked frankly. She answered Eugene Snow’s every question unhesitatingly and comprehensively. Together they ascended the stairs, and in the guest room she showed him the table at which she and Marian had studied the sketches of plans, and exactly where they had left them lying overnight.
“The one thing I can’t be explicit about,” said Linda, “is how many sheets were there in the morning. We had stayed awake so late talking, that we overslept. I packed Marian’s bag while she dressed. I snatched up what there were without realizing whether there were two sheets or three, laid them in the flat bottom of the case, and folded her clothing on top of them.”
“I see,” said Mr. Snow comprehendingly. “Now let’s experiment a little. Of course the window before that table was raised?”
“Yes, it was,” said Linda, “but every window in the house is screened.”
“And what about the door opening into the hall? Can you tell me whether it was closed or open?”
“It was open,” said Linda. “We left it slightly ajar to create a draft; the night was warm.”
“Is there anyone about the house,” inquired Mr. Snow, “who could tell us certainly whether that window was screened that night?”
“Of course,” said Linda. “Our housekeeper, Katherine O’Donovan, would know. When we go down we’ll ask her.”