“Yes,” he admitted, “and what’s the corollary?”
“That the wearer is probably a clean-shaven person with thin hair, a daring scoundrel who is well posted in the leading characteristics of Owd Ben. Charles le Petit, time is now ripe for details of that hairy goblin.”
“Where did you dig him up from, anyhow?” said the detective testily.
“Mrs. Bates recognized him from my vivid description.”
“Her husband can tell us the story,” put in Grant. “I’ll fetch him.”
He had not moved ere the front door bell rang a second time.
“Here is Owd Ben himself, I expect,” said Hart.
“If it’s that Robinson—” growled Furneaux vexedly, hastening to forestall Minnie.
But it was Doris Martin, and very pretty she looked as she entered the room, her high color being the joint outcome of a rapid walk and a very natural embarrassment at finding the frankly admiring eyes of a stranger fixed on her.
“I don’t quite know why I’m here,” she said, with a nervous laugh, addressing Grant directly. “You will think I am always gazing in the direction of The Hollies, but my room commands this house so fully that I cannot help seeing or hearing anything unusual. A few minutes ago I heard what I thought was a muffled gunshot. I looked out, and saw your window thrown open, though the light was dim, and only a candle was showing in the smaller window. I was alarmed, so came to inquire what had happened. You’ll pardon me, I’m sure.”