“I’ve a lot more respect for Miss Mount and the servants in this house than I have for the family!” he laughed. “Personally, I’m inclined to believe Stimson! I think he’s glad somebody murdered Harrison. But I don’t think he did it. He’s just as curious as we are to find out who did! That planted bit of feather, if it was planted, would make me mighty curious, I know!”
“It doesn’t look as if he did it,” nodded Bernard. “I just wanted to see what he’d say. He has no motive for shooting Graham.”
“Who has?” inquired Landis.
“Nobody that I know of—yet. What next? You’re in charge, you know.”
Landis grew serious and thoughtful.
“I might remind you of one thing. Right after somebody tried to kill Graham, his wife found Miss Mount’s door locked!”
“Joel was in his room or thereabouts on each occasion,” Bernard commented. “But that doesn’t prove much. I suggest that we arrange the lights down here and get a look at the library from Miss Mount’s room. Those young roadsters will be coming home before long.”
Landis switched on the lights in the reception-room. Lights and windows were just as they had been on the night of the murder of Harrison, except that the side window in the reception-room was now closed and had been open then. With a nod to the mystified sergeant, who had been unable to hear what they said, the two detectives mounted the stairs and again knocked on the door of Miss Mount’s bedroom.
They heard the creak of a rocking-chair and the sound of firm footsteps. The door opened to disclose Miss Mount still fully dressed. At sight of them she raised her eyebrows in surprise and displeasure.
“Well, gentlemen, what is it now?”