“Yes, here it is.”
Grant rose, and went to a writing-desk with nests of drawers which stood against the wall on the left of the door. He never used it for its primary purpose. When the table was laid for meals, Minnie or her mother had orders to remove all papers and books to the top of the desk. The house contained no other living-room of size. The hall was spacious; a smoking den next the dining-room had degenerated into a receptacle of guns, fishing-rods, golf-clubs, Alpenstocks, skis and other such sporting accessories. The remainder of the ground-floor accommodation was given up to the Bateses.
Unlocking a drawer, Grant produced a notebook, which he handed to Furneaux. The detective laid it on the table. He was sitting with his back to the large window. Hart faced him. Grant’s chair was between the two.
“By the way, as you’re on your feet, Mr. Grant,” said Furneaux, “you might just show me exactly where you were standing when you saw the face at the window.”
“For the love of Mike, what’s this?” gurgled Hart. “‘The face at the window’; ‘the postmaster’s daughter.’ How many more catchy cross-heads will you bring into the story?”
“Poor Adelaide Melhuish undoubtedly came here on Monday night and looked in at me while I was at work,” said Grant sadly. “You know the history of my calf love three years ago, Wally.”
“Shall I ever forget it? You bored me stiff about it. Then, when the crash came, you walked me off my legs in the Upper Engadine. Ugh! That night on the Forno glacier. It gives me a chill to think of it now. Furneaux, pass the port. Your name is wrongly spelt. It should be fourneau, not Furneaux. A little oven. Hot stuff. Got me?”
“My dear Hart, you flatter me,” retorted the detective instantly.
“How long am I to pose here?” snapped Grant.
“Sorry,” said Furneaux. “These interruptions are banal. Is that where you were?”