“Very well, sir.” Herman held his portly figure more erect. “As I was passing down the corridor, sir, after closing the house for the night I heard Mr. Meredith say—his bedroom door being partly open—‘I intend to have my will in this matter, whatever the consequences; so save your hysterics. Beggars cannot be choosers. Not one penny of my money will go to—’ That’s all I heard, sir,” ended Herman.
“And the woman, who was she?” demanded Penfield. “Come, did you not catch a glimpse of her through the open door?”
Herman wagged a bewildered head. “’Nary a glimpse of her face,” he said. “But—but—I saw a bit of her dressing gown reflected in the mirror of the bathroom door and it resembled one that Miss Anne wears.”
Penfield regarded the butler attentively for a moment. “At what hour of the night was this?” he asked.
Over in his corner by the fireplace Curtis’ hands contracted tightly around his cane and the lines of his face grew set and stern. Was Anne Meredith to be dragged so soon into the investigation?
“It was just before midnight.” Herman spoke with more assurance. “I had locked up the house for the night as was my custom.”
“Do you generally close the house at midnight?” questioned Penfield.
“Oh, no, sir. The time varies according to the hour Mr. Meredith and his guests retire,” explained Herman quickly. “I waited up last night until after Mr. Armstrong left.”
“Oh, so he went away last night?”
“Yes, sir. He came down just as I was putting up the night latch on the front door and asked me if he could get his car out of the garage, so I went with him, sir, and roused Damason.”