“No. I was on my way to my room when I tripped over Meredith’s body.” Curtis spoke with an effort, the sensation of deadly faintness had not entirely vanished, in spite of the stimulant. He had no means of knowing that Hollister was watching him with uneasy suspicion. “I stayed down in the library until around two o’clock or a little after.”
“Ah, then you don’t know the exact hour you found poor Meredith,” Hollister spoke half to himself, but Curtis caught the words.
“It was a quarter past two by my repeater,” he answered.
“A quarter past two—and you did not call me until three o’clock,” exclaimed Hollister. “How was it that you let so long a time elapse?”
“Because I did not know which was your room,” explained Curtis, speaking slowly so that Hollister could not fail to understand. “I thought it best to call you on the house telephone, and it took me quite a time to find my way back to my bedroom. The moment I got there I telephoned to you—”
“The moment you got there,” repeated Hollister. “The moment you got to your bedroom, do you mean?”
“Yes. I identified it by the string on the door knob. You found me standing in my doorway when you came down the hall.”
Hollister stared at him, his eyes big with wonder. “Was it from that room you telephoned to me?” he asked.
“Yes,” with growing impatience. “I have already told you that I called you on the house ’phone in my bedroom.”
“But, my dear fellow, that wasn’t your bedroom.”