Anthony interrupted him promptly. “What do you mean, Atkins—did she say ‘my father’ or ‘her father’—you appreciate the difference, don’t you?” Atkins regarded him with an air of pained surprise. “The words she used, sir, were ‘my father’! I took it as ’ow she was alludin’ to ’er own male parent.” “Thank you, Atkins.” He discovered the exact position of the palm of the porter’s right hand. “You’ve been a great help to me.” “Thank you, sir. It’s been a real pleasure.” Inspector Goodall chewed the end of his cigarette. “Some relation of the murdered man, Mr. Bathurst, without a doubt. Fits in with my own theory, too—born the wrong side of the blanket perhaps over in the States somewhere—used the black glasses as a disguise. Worked the two jobs I shouldn’t wonder, in a way that we can’t quite fathom at the moment—there’s a missing link somewhere. Also—where does Mr. _Charles_ Stewart come in?”—he leaned right across in Anthony’s direction—“supposing it affects his inheritance—eh?” Anthony waved his hand and harked back to the proprietor of Blanchard’s hotel. “Mr. Blanchard—would you be good enough to turn up Mr. and Mrs. Stewart’s account—the one they settled when they went?” “I’ll go down and get it for you,” said Blanchard. “A matter of a few moments only.” “After he’s brought you that,” interjected the Inspector, “we’ll go and have a look at the room they occupied.” Blanchard was as good as his word. “I have what you asked for, sir! What was it in particular you wanted?” “Refer to the last day of their stay here, will you, Mr. Blanchard—did they lunch here?” Blanchard’s eyes traveled down the columns of the account. Then he shook his head. “No, sir, apparently they did not—it must have been one of the days when they were out—one of the days I mentioned!” Anthony looked across at Goodall. The latter smiled. “Testing Mr. Daventry’s theory, aren’t you—and it holds good—eh?” “What about that bedroom, Goodall?” “Just what I was thinking,” said the latter, rising from his seat. “Mr. Blanchard, we should like to have a look at the bedroom that Mr. and Mrs. Stewart occupied while they were staying here—I hope no newcomer is in it.” Blanchard was all attention. “Nobody at all, Inspector. The room is as they left it—except that the chambermaid may have tidied it up.” “That’s what I was afraid of,” groaned Goodall. “That gentle little operation known as ‘tidying up’—however, we’ll hope for the best.” Blanchard referred to a book. “Number fifty-four,” he announced. “I’ll take you up.”