Herman’s approach broke up the little group. “Damason is at the door, madam, with the car,” he announced, and with a bow to Curtis Mrs. Meredith moved away, Hollister in her wake. Armstrong was about to follow them when Herman addressed him.
“Inspector Mitchell has just telephoned to ask if you were here, sir,” he said. “He is waiting to speak to you.”
Armstrong smothered an oath. “Tell him to go to—Guinea!” he directed. “No, wait,” as Herman bowed and moved a few steps away. “I’ll talk to the beggar,” and he hurried back into the library, and over to the branch telephone standing on a small table in a corner, which had been devoted exclusively to John Meredith’s use.
Armstrong’s conversation over the telephone with Inspector Mitchell appeared to be a strictly one-sided affair, or so Curtis judged from the few monosyllabic remarks from the stockbroker. When he hung up the receiver a few minutes later he was scowling.
“Persistent devils, these detectives,” he said, walking over to the smoking stand and striking a match which he applied to an expensive cigar. “Mitchell insists that I wait until he gets here.”
“Does his request put you to inconvenience?” asked Curtis politely.
Armstrong shrugged his shoulders, but whatever answer he would have made was forgotten on catching sight, through one of the windows, of Lucille and Anne walking across the lawn toward the lodge. Without a word of explanation to Curtis, he opened the French window and hurried after the two girls.
Curtis made his way over to the window and stood in it facing the lawn. He was not aware that his tall figure in its well-fitting suit of gray clothes was silhouetted against the dark background of the library, or that, at Armstrong’s hail, Anne and her cousin had swung around. Anne’s gaze traveled past Armstrong’s advancing figure and rested on Curtis. She instinctively raised her hand to wave a friendly greeting, then dropped it. For an instant she had forgotten that Curtis was blind. There was a catch in her throat as she spoke to Armstrong and her face was unsmiling as she walked with him and Lucille to the lodge.
It was fully ten minutes before Curtis left the window and went slowly upstairs to his bedroom. Pausing by his bed, he laid his cane across it. In doing so his hand touched some clothing. Lifting it up he found it was a suit of pajamas. Curtis bent down and passed his hand rapidly over the bed; it was, as he thought, made up. Why then were his pajamas laid out on the bed at noon? Had Gretchen, the chambermaid, forgotten to put them away or was it carelessness on the part of Fernando, his Filipino valet?
Somewhat perplexed, Curtis again picked up his pajamas. As he ran his fingers over the jacket he drew out a handkerchief from the pocket. Holding it close to his nose he detected the odor of chloroform. Only a faint, very faint, trace of the chloroform remained, but it was sufficient to identify the handkerchief as the one thrown toward him by the unknown woman in John Meredith’s bedroom on the night of Meredith’s murder.