“We found her in the Drukker house, locked in a closet,” he amplified, in a low, even tone.
Arnesson became serious, and an involuntary frown gathered on his forehead. But this slackening of pose was only transient. Slowly his mouth twisted into a smirk.
“You policemen are so efficient. Fancy finding little Miss Muffet so soon. Remarkable.” He wagged his head in mock admiration. “However, sooner or later it was to be expected.—And what, may I ask, is to be the next move?”
“We also found the typewriter,” pursued Vance, ignoring the question. “And Drukker’s stolen note-book.”
Arnesson was at once on his guard.
“Did you really?” He gave Vance a canny look. “Where were these tell-tale objects?”
“Up-stairs—in the attic.”
“Aha! Housebreaking?”
“Something like that.”
“Withal,” Arnesson scoffed, “I can’t see that you have a cast-iron case against any one. A typewriter is not like a suit of clothes that fits only one person. And who can say how Drukker’s note-book found its way into our attic?—You must do better than that, Mr. Vance.”