Benson throwing open the door, Paul Harley walked into the room which so often figured in his vain imaginings. The table was laid for dinner in accordance with his directions. The chair which he remembered to have occupied was in place and that in which Sir Charles had died was set at the head of the table.
Brows contracted, Harley stood just inside the room, looking slowly about him. And, as he stood so, an interrogatory cough drew his gaze to the doorway. He turned sharply, and there was Mrs. Howett, a pathetic little figure in black.
“Ah, Mrs. Howett,” said Harley; kindly, “please try to forgive me for this unpleasant farce with its painful memories. But I have a good reason. I think you know this. Now, as I am naturally anxious to have everything clear before Miss Abingdon returns, will you be good enough to tell me if the table is at present set exactly as on the night that Sir Charles and I came in to dinner?”
“No, Mr. Harley,” was the answer, “that was what I was anxious to explain. The table is now laid as Benson left it on that dreadful night.”
“Ah, I see. Then you, personally, made some modifications?”
“I rearranged the flowers and moved the centre vase so.” The methodical old lady illustrated her words. “I also had the dessert spoons changed. You remember, Benson?”
Benson inclined his head. From a sideboard he took out two silver spoons which he substituted for those already set upon the table.
“Anything else, Mrs. Howett?”
“The table is now as I left it, sir, a few minutes before your arrival. Just after your arrival I found Jones, the parlourmaid—a most incompetent, impudent girl—altering the position of the serviettes. At least, such was my impression.”
“Of the serviettes?” murmured Harley.