“Hem,” said Cosgrove, his features settling into a study.
“Come, come,” urged Pendleton, making a nervous movement of impatience. “Tell us—when were you in your room last?”
“A little after nine, I think,” answered Cosgrove, solemnly scratching his black-thatched head behind the left ear, his look scowling and intent upon the floor, his brow cleft by one heavy wrinkle. “I saw the boy riding the bicycle out of the barn; that would be nine, you said. I heard Lord Ludlow quarrelling with the man Soames for bringing him the wrong color of towel, a quarter of an hour later—fully. And I came out in the corridor in time to see Soames disappear down the stair.”
“After a quarter past nine,” said Pendleton. “That leaves over two hours—unless Harmony—”
“It couldn’t have been there and you not see it?” I asked.
“In the centre of the floor? Mr. Bannerlee!”
“Are you implying that it was left there last night?”
“I withdraw the suggestion, Crofts,” I said, “although—”
“There are enough ‘if’s’ and ‘although’s’ in this to—to stock a political editor,” grumbled our host.
“Has the placard any mark, any peculiarity—”