A table was pushed out of place, and a couple of chairs had been upset. I found an old and greasy brown felt hat that had neither sweatband nor hatband. I found a grimy photograph of President Coolidge—apparently cut from a Chinese newspaper—and six wheat-straw cigarette papers.
I found nothing upstairs to show that any of my guests had gone up there.
It was half past two in the morning when I heard a car drive up to the front door. I peeped out of Lillian Shan’s bedroom window, on the second floor. She was saying good night to Jack Garthorne.
I went back to the library to wait for her.
“Nothing happened?” were her first words, and they sounded more like a prayer than anything else.
“It did,” I told her, “and I suppose you had your breakdown.”
For a moment I thought she was going to lie to me, but she nodded, and dropped into a chair, not as erect as usual.
“I had a lot of company,” I said, “but I can’t say I found out much about them. The fact is, I bit off more than I could chew, and had to be satisfied with chasing them out.”
“You didn’t call the sheriff’s office?” There was something strange about the tone in which she put the question.
“No—I don’t want Garthorne arrested yet.”
That shook the dejection out of her. She was up, tall and straight in front of me, and cold.
“I’d rather not go into that again,” she said.