“Where is Mr. Deming?” asked Salt in a loud voice.
Footsteps sounded on the circular stairway. A portly, bald-headed man with a pleasant face came heavily down the steps.
“Did someone ask for me?” he inquired.
“You’re Mr. Deming?” asked Salt.
“I am. Flew in from New York about ten minutes ago and was just changing my clothes. What may I do for you?”
“I’ve been trying to tell these folks you can’t see them tonight, Mr. Deming,” broke in Mrs. Botts. “You’re too tired.”
“Nonsense,” replied the mansion owner impatiently. “Sit down by the fire, everyone. Tell me what brought you here.”
Mrs. Botts began to edge toward the kitchen door. Observing the action, Salt called sharply:
“Don’t go, Mrs. Botts. We want to talk to you in particular.”
“I’ve nothing to say,” the caretaker retorted tartly.