“Minnie’s.”
“She’s in the kitchen, with her mother. See that she doesn’t come upstairs while I’m absent. You three keep on talking.”
“Thanks,” said Hart.
Doris, more self-possessed now, read the meaning of the quip promptly.
“Mr. Grant has often spoken of you,” she said. “You talk, and we’ll listen.”
“Not so, divinity,” came the retort. “I may be a parrot, but I don’t want my neck wrung when you’ve gone.”
“Don’t encourage him, Doris,” said Grant, “or you’ll be here till midnight.”
“If that’s the best you can do, you had better leave the recital to me,” laughed Hart.
Meanwhile, Furneaux had stolen noiselessly to the bedroom overhead. The casement window was open—he had noted that fact while in the garden. He peeped out, and was just in time to see Robinson emulating a Sioux Indian on the war-path. The policeman removed his helmet, and was about to peer cautiously through the small window. The detective’s blood ran cold. What if Hart discovered yet another ghost?
“Robinson—go home!” he said, in sepulchral tones.