“Yes,” replied Hannasyde non-commitally. “She has a reputation for being extremely inquisitive.”
Chapter Seven
Randall, leaving the study in the wake of his aunt, did not follow her to the library, where he could ear her voice raised in denunciation of himself, but strolled instead to the foot of the stairs, and after a brief glance round the empty hall went up, not hurriedly, but soft-footed. There was no one on the upper landing. The first door led into Gregory Matthews' bedroom, and was not locked. Randall turned the handle, and went in, and quietly closed the door behind him.
The room, which was large, and gloomy with mahogany, had the unfriendly look that uninhabited apartments wear. The bed was draped by a dust-sheet; the windows were shut; and the dressing-table, the chest of drawers, and even the mantelpiece were swept bare of all personal belongings.
Randall glanced about him, and presently moved towards the wardrobe, a huge, triple-doored piece that took up nearly the whole of one wall. Gregory Matthews' clothes were neatly arranged in it, but they did not seem to concern Randall, for after a brief survey he closed the doors again, and went across to the dressing-table. There was nothing in either of its drawers, except a watch and chain, and a box containing cuff-links and studs, and the chest at the opposite side of the room contained only piles of underclothing.
Randall shrugged, and walked over to the door which communicated with his uncle's bathroom. Here the same barrenness met his gaze; not so much as a razor strop had been left to remind him of his uncle's erstwhile presence. He went at once to where a small medicine chest hung, but it was quite empty. He slowly shut it, and turned away towards the door leading out on to the landing. He opened it, and stepped out of the room just as Stella came running lightly up the stairs.
She checked at sight of him, and stared, a frown slowly gathering on her brow. Randall met the stare with his faint, bland smile, and closed the bathroom door behind him. “Good-morning, my precious,” he said.
She remained with her hand still resting on the big wooden knob at the head of the banisters. “What were you doing in there?” she asked, her voice sharp with suspicion.
“Just looking over the scene of the crime,” he answered. He held out his open cigarette-case. “Will you smoke, my love?”
“No, thanks. What were you looking for?”