“Yes, and likely to remain so with this gruesome story attached to it. I suppose I shall have to make a survey of the premises with a view to having them put in repair.”
“When you do,” said he, “I should like to go with you and look over the house.”
“But it is all dismantled. Everything has been cleared out. You will find nothing there but empty rooms and a litter of discarded rubbish.”
“Never mind,” said he. “I have occasionally picked up some quite useful information from empty rooms and discarded rubbish. Do you know if the police have examined the house?”
“I believe not. At any rate, nothing has been said to me to that effect.”
“So much the better,” said he. “Can we fix a time for our visit?”
“It can’t be to-morrow,” said I, “because I must see Barbara and get the keys if she has them. Would the day after to-morrow do, after lunch?”
“Perfectly,” he replied. “Come and lunch with me; and, by the way, Mayfield, it would be best not to mention to any one that I am coming with you, and I wouldn’t say anything about this parcel.”
I looked at him with sudden suspicion, recalling Wallingford’s observations on the subject of mare’s nests. “But, my dear Thorndyke!” I exclaimed, “you don’t surely associate that parcel with any of the inmates of that house!”
“I don’t associate it with any particular person,” he replied. “I know only what you know; that it was sent by some one to whom my existence is, for some reason, undesirable, and whose personality is to some extent indicated by the peculiarities of the thing itself.”