Arnesson made a grimace.
“Elected! I refuse, however, to attend the funeral. Obscene spectacles, funerals. But Belle and I will see to everything. Lady Mae probably left a will. We’ll have to find it. Now, where do women generally hide their wills? . . .”
Vance halted by the Dillards’ basement door and stepped into the archery-room. After glancing along the door’s moulding he rejoined us on the range.
“The alley key isn’t there.—By the by, what do you know about it, Mr. Arnesson?”
“You mean the key to yon wooden door in the fence? . . . Haven’t an idea on the subject. Never use the alley myself—much simpler going out the front door. No one uses it, as far as I know. Belle locked it up years ago: thought some one might sneak in off the Drive and get an arrow in the eye. I told her, let ’em get popped—serve ’em right for being interested in archery.”
We entered the Drukker house by the rear door. Belle Dillard and Mrs. Menzel were busy in the kitchen.
“Hallo, sis,” Arnesson greeted the girl. His cynical manner had been dropped. “Hard lines for a young ’un like you. You’d better run home now. I’ll assume command.” And taking her arm in a jocularly paternal fashion, he led her to the door.
She hesitated and looked back at Vance.
“Mr. Arnesson is right,” he nodded. “We’ll carry on for the present.—But just one question before you go. Did you always keep the key to the alley door hanging in the archery-room?”
“Yes—always. Why? Isn’t it there now?”