He broke the brief silence with a question, his tone conveying a hint of lazy insolence. “Do I pass?”
“You’re a friend of the family?” inquired Landis.
“A particular friend, gentlemen.”
“Meaning—?”
“—that Isabelle and I are engaged.”
“What is your full name and where do you live?”
The suave courtesy with which Landis spoke, the grim amusement on Bernard’s face were having their effect. Russell answered with a shade less assurance.
“Hobart Clark Russell,” he told them and added his address in Westchester.
Landis repeated his usual questions without success. Russell had not locked the door at the end of the wing, nor closed the rear door of the library that evening. He had never noticed the bow in the library, seldom entered that room. Nor had he seen the Japanese bow away from its usual place.
He had overheard no quarrels between Harrison and anyone else in the house, though he said Harrison jumped on his brother at meals, the only time they saw each other. Finally, he had noticed no one and nothing suspicious about the house or grounds and had no idea who killed Harrison.