“Good Lord, no! Why should it? Ethel went to the Cuddys, according to Mr. Harrison, when she was only three years old. Her mother might have been anybody. Probably she’s dead. That’s all shrouded in the mists of eighteen years. Ethel is twenty-one now. Some poor little stenographer, probably. Mr. Harrison was hardly a pleasant character.”
Bernard got up. Landis followed suit.
“Well,” said Bernard, “thanks for telling us all about it. Don’t worry. We’ll keep it dark. And don’t worry about this business tonight, either. We’ll see there’s no second attempt on you! Good night.”
“Good night,” said Landis. “Get some sleep now.”
Graham was staring after them. A rather startled expression had crept into his eyes.
“Good night,” he said absently. “Switch out the light, will you? Never mind locking the door unless you think it’s necessary.”
“Not at all, now,” Landis assured him.
They went out quietly, closed the door, nodded to the stiffly seated policeman and descended to the first floor again. Their talk with Graham explained his earlier reticence. It afforded them no direct clue to the solution of the double mystery.