TO MY AMAZEMENT, THE detective devoted his scrutiny to the dining table. He examined the wood of it carefully and then drawing a lens from his pocket peered through it in true Sherlock Holmes fashion.
I wondered if this was meant to impress the staring Dora, but March seemed to be interested on his own account, and he pocketed his lens with a sigh of satisfaction.
“Now the kitchen,” he said, and we went thither.
A modern, immaculate kitchen it was, with all the up-to-date contrivances for lightening labor and for achieving quick results.
March took in most of it at a glance, pausing only to turn round a can of cocoa on a shelf in the glass-doored cupboard.
“Yes,” he said, smiling at Dora, “I think that’s the best brand, too.”
Then we went upstairs.
It seemed sacrilege to me to go in
