"Mr. Furneaux came here once before, sir," said Jenkins in his staid official way.
"Ah, I thought perhaps—when was that?"
"Let me see, sir. It was—yes—on the third, the afternoon of the murder, I remember."
The third—the afternoon of the murder. Those words ate their way into Winter's very brain. They might have been fired from a pistol rather than uttered by the placid Jenkins.
"The afternoon, you say," repeated Winter. "Yes—quite so; he wished to see Mr. Osborne. At what exact hour about would that be?"
Jenkins again meditated. Then he said: "Mr. Furneaux called, sir, about 5.45, as far as I can recollect. He wished to see my master, who was out, but was expected to return. So Mr. Furneaux was shown in here to await him, and he waited a quarter of an hour, if I am right in saying that he came at 5.45, because Mr. Osborne telephoned me from Feldisham Mansions that he would not be returning, and as I entered the museum there, where Mr. Furneaux then was, to tell him, I heard the clock strike six, I remember."
At this Hylda Prout whirled round in her chair.
"The museum!" she cried. "How odd, how exceedingly odd! Just now Mr. Furneaux seemed to be rather surprised when I told him that there was a museum!"
"He doubtless forgot, miss," said Jenkins, "for he had certainly gone in there when I entered the library."
"Thanks, thanks," said Winter lightly, "that's how it was—good-day"; and he went out with the vacant air of a man who has lost something, but knows not what.