When the port was on the table, and John had retired, Mabel said, “This room is very comfy, and I think we might go into matters here. You can smoke.”
“Not till after this excellent port,” said Collins. “Our ancestors would turn in their graves if we smoked with the port. Isn’t that so, Watson?”
“That was the custom,” said the other with a smile. There was no trace of the Scotland Yard ‘hack’ now in this man who presided at the table as one born to it.
“Well, before we have your story,” said Collins, “I would like to know how many were in the plot. Miss Watson and you, Allery, I know. Anyone else?” and he glanced sharply at Sanders.
“You are a wizard,” said Allery. “No, there were only us two. Sanders knew nothing about it.”
Sinclair moved uneasily. Was he in a madhouse? ‘Plot’ and ‘secret’! These people were talking as though they were playing a game, and he had come on the track of a murderer.
“Can we have the explanation of all this?” he said, testily.
“Certainly, Sinclair,” said Watson, “and you are entitled to one from me, at any rate. Here goes.”
The main lights were turned off, and only the electric bulbs in shades threw a soft light on the table. There was no sound in the room while Watson spoke.
“I will not be more tedious than possible, but I want to make the narrative clear, so I must go back.”