“Often,” he repeated, a little heavily. “I know you very well by sight, Sir John. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. Too many. ” “The inference is, then,” the detective said smoothly, “that this man obtained admission to your rooms by means of a false key, that he burnt some papers here and shot himself within a few moments of your return. As far as I recollect, there were two. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. Monsieur is going inside perhaps?” But Sir John’s eyes were still riveted upon the poster, and his heart was beating with unaccustomed force. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality.
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