“To an extra bath-room,” I said scornfully. “Haven’t you a thumb-print, too?”
“I have,” he said with a smile, “and the print of a foot in a tulip bed, and a number of other things. The oddest part is, Miss Innes, that the thumb-mark is probably yours and the footprint certainly.”
His audacity was the only thing that saved me: his amused smile put me on my mettle, and I ripped out a perfectly good scallop before I answered.
“Why did I step into the tulip bed?” I asked with interest.
“You picked up something,” he said good-humoredly, “which you are going to tell me about later.”
“Am I, indeed?” I was politely curious. “With this remarkable insight of yours, I wish you would tell me where I shall find my four-thousand-dollar motor car.”
“I was just coming to that,” he said. “You will find it about thirty miles away, at Andrews Station, in a blacksmith shop, where it is being repaired.”
I laid down my knitting then and looked at him.
“And Halsey?” I managed to say.
“We are going to exchange information,” he said “I am going to tell you that, when you tell me what you picked up in the tulip bed.”