“You’ve been awfully good to bear with our foolish questions so patiently. . . . Now we’re going to drop in on Mr. Pardee and see if he has any illuminatin’ suggestions to offer. He’s generally in at this time, I believe.”
“I’m sure he’s in now.” The girl walked with us to the hall. “He was here only a little while before you came, and he said he was returning home to attend to some correspondence.”
We were about to go out when Vance paused.
“Oh, I say, Miss Dillard; there’s one point I forgot to ask you about. When you came home last night with Mr. Arnesson, how did you know it was just half past twelve? I notice you don’t wear a watch.”
“Sigurd told me,” she explained. “I was rather mean to him for bringing me home so early, and as we entered the hall here I asked him spitefully what time it was. He looked at his watch and said it was half past twelve. . . .”
At that moment the front door opened and Arnesson came in. He stared at us in mock astonishment; then he caught sight of Belle Dillard.
“Hallo, sis,” he called to her pleasantly. “In the hands of the gendarmerie, I see.” He flashed us an amused look. “Why the conclave? This house is becoming a regular police station. Hunting for clews of Sprigg’s murderer? Ha! Bright youth done away with by his jealous professor, and that sort of thing, eh? . . . Hope you chaps haven’t been putting Diana the Huntress through a third degree.”
“Nothing of the kind,” the girl spoke up. “They’ve been most considerate. And I’ve been telling them what an old fogy you are—bringing me home at half past twelve.”
“I think I was very indulgent,” grinned Arnesson. “Much too late for a child like you to be out.”
“It must be terrible to be senile and—and mathematically inclined,” she retorted with some heat, and ran up-stairs.