He guided me into the house and—after I had assured him that I had already eaten luncheon—gave me a soft chair and an excellent cigar. He sprawled on his spine in an armchair opposite me—all loose-jointed angles sticking out of it in every direction—and blew smoke at the ceiling for several thoughtful minutes.
“First off,” he began presently, his words coming out languidly, “I may as well tell you that I don’t expect very much in the way of results. I sent for you more for the soothing effect of your presence on the household than because I expect you to do anything. I don’t believe there’s anything to do. However, I’m not a detective. I may be wrong. You may find out all sorts of more or less important things. If you do—fine! But I don’t insist upon it.”
I didn’t say anything, though this beginning wasn’t much to my taste. He smoked in silence for a moment, and then went on: “My father-in-law, Talbert Exon, is a man of fifty-seven, and ordinarily a tough, hard, active, and fiery old devil. But just now he’s recovering from a rather serious attack of pneumonia, which has taken most of the starch out of him. He hasn’t been able to leave his bed yet, and I understand that Dr. Rench hopes to keep him on his back for another week at the very least.
“The old man has a room on the second floor—the front, right-hand corner room—just over where we are sitting. His nurse, Miss Caywood, occupies the next room, and there is a connecting door between. My room is the other front one, just across the hall from the old man’s; and my wife’s bedroom is next to mine—across the hall from the nurse’s. I’ll show you around later; I just want to make the situation clear to you first.
“Last night, or rather this morning, at about half-past one, somebody shot at Exon while he was sleeping—and missed. The bullet went into the frame of the door that leads to his nurse’s room, about six inches