“On the stairs, after Mrs. Crawford screamed.”
“Is that the sum total of your knowledge of its antecedents, birthplace, and purpose in life. Then we’re about as well off as we were a month ago.”
Julian looked quenched.
“Can’t it be traced?” he murmured.
“What with—a stencil? Never mind. Don’t let it worry you. Oh, I’ll keep it,” he added, as Julian extended a hand. “Our friend Stebbins will enjoy it. If I show it to him. He hasn’t a flare for motives, but he eats up clues. Have you others?”
“No, not exactly. But I thought I’d better mention that Miss Lacey just remembered the name she was trying to recall. You know, the name mentioned by Romany. It’s Violet Mowbray. Does it mean a blessed thing to you? It doesn’t to me.”
Berry’s eyes were intent on the pattern in the rug. Again Julian could make nothing of his face. Then Berry clicked his tongue, with a sound like a miniature gunshot, and for the startled Julian it registered the click of an idea.
“Uhmmm?!” Berry prolonged the interrogatory exclamation with exaggerated softness. “Very strange. In fact, very strange. Thank you, Prentice. You are contributing your bit at last. It fits. It jolly well fits. Which is what I’m looking for, you know—things to fit my preconceived idea. There are two ways of working this detective racket, son—theory first and theory last. Mine’s first. I make my facts fit the crime.— Hello, Belknap. Come in. Prentice and I are having a truth party. Or rather he’s come across with a little truth after keeping it back all afternoon. But I’m being lenient with him because he claims it’s all due to my charms. He saved up just to give me a few pointers. Aren’t you jealous?”
“Rraather.” Belknap always went his English ancestors one better in accent whenever his dignity was endangered. “Shall I retire?”
“By no means. I’m sure even the untutored Prentice will agree that in matters of codes and Violet Mowbrays three heads are better than two. There’s no such thing as too many detectives, is there?”