“How do you do?” he said with some formality.
“Very well indeed, thank you,” replied Landis as he sat down. “How are you, Mr. Harrison?”
“Oh, quite well. I’m always well!”
Landis nodded and let the conversation lapse, watching the old fellow intently. In spite of many wrinkles, the long, lean face had something of the child, or rather, something of extreme youth in it. Landis then and afterwards thought of Joel Harrison in terms of a bird or an animal rather than as a human being. Everything about the man, his sudden silences, his relaxed immobility, his dreamy or bird-like glances, belonged to the woodland rather than to civilized mankind. Remembering the dead man’s face it was difficult to imagine the two brothers getting on together.
“Mr. Harrison,” he began at last, “did you lock the door at the end of the wing on this floor tonight?”
Joel turned his head slowly.
“Why, no. Stimson takes care of that sort of thing,” he explained.
For the last time, Landis embarked upon his list of questions. Joel Harrison answered them clearly but slowly and with a sort of absent, equable courtesy. He had not closed the library door or seen any stranger about the place lately. He understood that his brother had been hurt but had not been told, as yet, who did it.
Thoroughly puzzled as to the extent of the man’s mentality, Landis tried a new tack.
“Mr. Harrison,” he said, “we’d both be interested to hear how you spent your day today?”