A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. “I wondered. Have you been inhaling the fumes inside Missy’s car?” She had pushed the exact right button. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. “I suppose some one makes a bit on the food,” she said. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. ‘I have justice.
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