“Forgive me. I’m not quite myself.” He drew forward the little chess table and placed glasses on it for all of us. “Please overlook my discourtesy.” He filled the glasses and sat down.
We drew up chairs. There was none of us, I think, who did not feel the need of a glass of wine after the harrowing events we had just passed through.
When we had settled ourselves the professor lifted heavy eyes to Vance, who had taken a seat opposite to him.
“Tell me everything,” he said. “Don’t try to spare me.”
Vance drew out his cigarette-case.
“First, let me ask you a question. Where was Mr. Arnesson between five and six yesterday afternoon?”
“I—don’t know.” There was a reluctance in the words. “He had tea here in the library; but he went out about half past four, and I didn’t see him again until dinner time.”
Vance regarded the other sympathetically for a moment, then he said:
“We’ve found the typewriter on which the Bishop notes were printed. It was in an old suit-case hidden in the attic of this house.”
The professor showed no sign of being startled.