The night the detective arrived, Saturday, I had a talk with him.
I told him of the experience Louise Armstrong had had the night
before, on the circular staircase, and about the man who had so
frightened Rosie on the drive. I saw that he thought the
information was important, and to my suggestion that we put an
additional lock on the east wing door he opposed a strong
negative.
"I think it probable," he said, "that our visitor will be back
again, and the thing to do is to leave things exactly as they
are, to avoid rousing suspicion. Then I can watch for at least a
part of each night and probably Mr. Innes will help us out. I
would say as little to Thomas as possible. The old man knows
more than he is willing to admit."
I suggested that Alex, the gardener, would probably be willing to
help, and Mr. Jamieson undertook to make the arrangement. For
one night, however, Mr. Jamieson preferred to watch alone.
Apparently nothing occurred. The detective sat in absolute
darkness on the lower step of the stairs, dozing, he said
afterwards, now and then. Nothing could pass him in either
direction, and the door in the morning remained as securely
fastened as it had been the night before. And yet one of the
most inexplicable occurrences of the whole affair took place that
very night.
Liddy came to my room on Sunday morning with a face as long as
the moral law. She laid out my things as usual, but I missed
her customary garrulousness.
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