“You never took the trouble to make inquiries about me?” She surprised a look in Douglas’ face—why did he appear as if caught? The expression was fleeting, but Eleanor’s eyes hardened. “Good-bye,” she turned abruptly away, without seeing his half-extended hand.
Douglas looked anything but pleasant when he joined Brett, who stood waiting for him in the vestibule. They strolled down Massachusetts Avenue for over a block in absolute silence.
Brett was the first to speak. “When you were eating breakfast I saw Annette, Miss Thornton’s French maid, and questioned her in regard to the dressing gowns worn by the Carew household.”
“What luck did you meet with?” inquired Douglas, rousing from a deep study.
“She says Mrs. Winthrop, Miss Carew, and Miss Thornton all wear dressing gowns made of oriental silk.”
“Upon my word!” ejaculated Douglas, much astonished. “Still, they can’t be the same pattern.”
“It won’t be so easy to identify your midnight caller by means of that silk,” taking out the slip which Douglas had torn from the dressing gown the night before. “Annette says the gowns were given to Mrs. Winthrop and Miss Carew by Miss Thornton, who purchased them, with hers, at a Japanese store in H Street. The French girl isn’t above accepting a bribe, so when I suggested her showing me the gowns, she got them and brought them into the library, while Mrs. Winthrop and Miss Thornton were breakfasting in Miss Carew’s boudoir.”
“Did you see all three of them?”
“Yes, and they are as alike as two peas in a pod. And, Mr. Hunter,” his voice deepened impressively, “I examined them with the greatest care, and not one kimono was torn—nor had any one of them ever been mended.”