"The main details as told in the papers, yes. Also, I've seen Mr. Roberts this morning, and I've discussed matters with him and with Captain Steele. But never mind those sources of information. I want the stories of each one of you here. And, if you please, I want them separately, and in each instance, alone. Otherwise, I cannot take the case." "Why, of course, Mr. Ford," said Joyce, "we will agree to anything you stipulate. Please direct us, and we will obey." "Then first, I will talk with Mr. Stannard, and later with the ladies. Also, I must ask that the interviews be in the Studio, the room where the crime took place. This is not only because it is more appropriate, but I can think better in a large room. This little low-ceiled box of a room doesn't give me space to think!" Ford's winsome smile took all hint of rudeness from the words, and as he rose, his great height and proportionate bulk seemed to bear out his statement, and the assumption that his mind was of wide scope and far-reaching limits, made it seem plausible that he felt stifled in a small or low room. "But you haven't yet been in the studio," said Natalie. "How do you know it is big and high?" "It was so described in the newspaper accounts. That is why I took an interest in the case. Also, I am willing to admit, I paused for a glance in at the studio door, as I came into the house, and before I entered this room." "A queer man," thought Natalie. "Why should a great detective talk about such foolish details as large or small rooms? Why should he take an interest in a case because of them?" The others had similar thoughts, but no comment was made on the visitor's peculiarities, save that Beatrice Faulkner seemed to feel obliged to defend her husband's architectural ideas. "The rooms are carefully proportioned," she said, pleasantly, but with a touch of pride in the fact. "The architect who designed them knew just what measurements were most effective from a technical and artistic point of view." "The rooms are all right," said Mr. Ford, smiling kindly at the speaker, "the trouble is with my own foolish vagaries." Then led by Barry, they all went into the studio. Alan Ford looked around him, with the most intense admiration expressed on his fine face. "Magnificent!" he said. "Mrs. Faulkner, your late husband was indeed a genius. I have never seen a more perfectly proportioned room, or one more appropriately and effectively decorated. The windows are marvels and the furniture is in every respect fitting." "Oh," said Joyce, "Mr. Stannard furnished the room. It was not built for a studio." "It is, then, the joint product of two geniuses. I know of Mr. Stannard's reputation." For a few moments Alan Ford seem to forget the errand on which he had come. He was, it was plain to be seen, deeply impressed with the beautiful apartment, and his dark, deep-set grey eyes roved about from pictures to statues, from furniture to decorations with admiring and approving gaze.