“That looks like Carroll.”

Lamb nodded.

“Or Tote. He could have got up there if he’d gone through the service door and up the back stair-though I don’t know why he should.”

Frank shook his head.

“Doesn’t seem likely. He’s not the build for sliding the banisters or running down stairs. You know, sir, I don’t see how anyone could have run down or up those stairs without being heard. You can’t walk silently on bare oak.”

“Not unless you’re in your stocking feet. If Carroll slid the banisters and ran back up the stairs he could slip off his pumps and leave them handy to get back into. Tote could have carried his down in his hand-fat men are often extraordinarily light on their feet. I don’t think there’s much in that. But I don’t know why he should have bothered to go upstairs to turn off the lights, when it would have been a whole lot simpler to have done it downstairs from the service door.”

“Well, that’s Masterman’s theory-he could have followed the others out of the drawing-room when they went out to watch the charade and got across the dark hall to wait behind the service door, and he could have put the mark on Porlock as he followed him into the hall. That would give him the switch by the service door to play with, and the luminous paint on Porlock’s back to guide him when the lights were out again. It’s all quite possible in theory, and not as much evidence as you could balance on the point of a needle.”

The door was opened in a tentative sort of way. Pearson made his appearance with a tray. Something about his manner suggested that he was, for the moment, a butler and not a detective. The tray supported a tea-pot, milk-jug and sugar-basin of a Queen Anne pattern, two cups and saucers, a covered dish, a dark fruit cake, and a plate of sandwiches. There was an agreeable smell of muffins, or perhaps buttered toast.

Pearson shut the door behind him dexterously and set down the tray.

“I thought you’d be ready for some tea, sir. Anchovy toast under the cover, and the sandwiches are egg and Gentleman’s Relish.” Then, reverting to the private detective, “If I may offer a word, sir, there’s something I think you ought to know.”

“What is it?” Lamb recalled his eye from the covered dish. “Well, speak up, man!”

Pearson looked deferential.

“In the matter of Mrs. Oakley’s maid-”

“What about her?” He jerked round upon Frank Abbott, who had picked up the tea-pot. “Pour out your own wash if you want to. If I have a cup of tea I like a bit of body in it. Brew it well, stand it well, sugar it well-that’s what my old Granny used to say, and she made the best cup of tea I ever tasted.” He turned back again. “What’s this about Mrs. Oakley’s maid?”

“Hooper, sir-Miss Hooper. Nothing, sir, except that she was in Mr. Porlock’s pay.”

Lamb sat up square, hands on knees.

“Oh, she was, was she? What makes you think so?”

Pearson looked more deprecating than ever. Quite irrationally, Frank was reminded of an earwig coming out from under a stone-or didn’t earwigs come out from under stones? He didn’t know, but that was what Pearson reminded him of. He was saying,

“Oh, I don’t think, sir-I know. In this sort of house the telephones are very convenient for listening in, and a butler is most commodiously placed with an extension in the pantry all to hand and private, as you might say. If I happened to know that Mr. Porlock was telephoning, I’d only to go into my pantry and shut the door. Or, in this case, if Miss Hooper rang him up-which she did, only not of course under that name-I’d only to put the call through to Mr. Porlock and make believe to hang up myself. With a little care the click can be induced or avoided, to suit the occasion.”

Frank Abbott put three drops of milk in his straw-coloured tea. Lamb grunted.

“How did you find out that it is this Hooper woman, if she didn’t give her name?”

Pearson evinced a modest pride.

“The young lady at the telephone exchange was able to give me the subscriber’s number. The name Miss Hooper gave was Robinson. I soon discovered that there was no one by that name at the Mill House. From the substance of the conversations it was quite clear that someone of the nature of a personal maid was speaking.”

“What had she got to say?”

“Well, the first time was last Tuesday. She said her name was Miss Robinson, and I put her through to Mr. Porlock. Tuesday evening it was. He says, ‘Anything to report?’ and she tells him, ‘Not very much. They’ve arrived, but Miss Cole, the governess, she’ve gone back to town, and the old nurse is there again.’ Mr. Porlock says he’s not interested in old nurses-what about the new secretary? And the maid sniffs and says Mrs. Oakley’s all out to spoil her, sending her up to London to get herself an evening dress. And Mr. Porlock says, ‘When?’ The maid says, ‘Tomorrow,’ and Mr. Porlock takes her up sharp. ‘Now listen,’ he says-‘this is very particular.’ And he tells her Mr. Oakley wants some luminous paint to dodge up a clock for the little boy, and she’s to get Mrs. Oakley to send Miss Brown-that’s the secretary-to the Luxe Stores between twelve and one o’clock, because they’ve got some there. ‘Now don’t forget, and don’t make a mess of it,’ he says. ‘She’s to go to the Luxe Stores between twelve and one.’ And he asks her what Miss Brown will be wearing, and she tells him she’s only got the one coat, a light brown tweed, and shabby at that. So he asks about her hat, and her shoes, and her handbag, all very particular. He says with a sort of a laugh, ‘Do her hair and eyes still match?’ and the maid sniffs and says she hasn’t taken that much notice. Then he says, ‘Is there anything else?’ and she says, ‘Something funny’s happened.’ And he says, ‘What?’ and she tells him. It seems Mrs. Oakley went through from her bedroom to the boudoir before dinner-there’s a door going through. Hooper hears Mrs. Oakley call out as if she was hurt. She goes to see what’s the matter, and she finds her with a crumpled-up photo in her hand, staring at it. Mrs. Oakley, she sits down sudden as if she’s going to faint, and Hooper picks the photo up. ‘Well?’ says Mr. Porlock, and the maid says, ‘Do you want me to tell you who it was?’ A very nasty sort of way she says it. And Mr. Porlock says, ‘You can tell me the photographer’s name.’ She says, ‘Rowbecker & Son, Norwood,’ and Mr. Porlock whistles and rings off. A minute or two later he rings up a London number-here it is, sir-and talks to someone he calls Maisie. He tells her, ‘It’s for between twelve and one tomorrow. Look out for a long tweed coat, light-coloured and shabby,’ and gives her the rest of the description he’s got from the maid, and finishes up with, ‘Her hair and eyes used to be a perfect match. I expect they are still-golden brown and very attractive. Get on with it!’ That was all that time, sir.”

“There were other times?”

“Yes, sir. Miss Hooper rang up next day about half past seven -said she couldn’t ring before, she had to wait till Mrs. Oakley went to her bath. She says Mr. Oakley and Miss Brown was back, and Mr. Porlock swore. And then he laughs and says, ‘What’s the odds?’ and rang off.”

“That all?”

“No, sir. She rang up yesterday afternoon and said Mrs. Oakley had been very upset ever since Wednesday-‘the day you came to see her.’ And Mr. Porlock says, ‘Is she coming tonight?’ And the maid says she’s in two minds about it, but she don’t want Mr. Oakley to know there’s anything wrong, and she thinks she’ll come.”

Lamb said, “H’m!” and then, “Thanks, Pearson.”

When the door had shut again he turned to the tray, poured out a good stewed cup of tea, added milk and sugar with a liberal hand, and did full justice to the anchovy toast, the sandwiches, and the cake, the only contribution he made to the case from start to finish being a grunt and a “So he went to see her on Wednesday. Well, we’ll be along as soon as we’ve finished our tea.”