"
"I do mean her. To be exact, I mean the lady who was murdered outside
this house last night."
Grant realized instantly that Isidor G. Ingerman was a foeman worthy of
even a novelist's skill in repartee. Thus far, he, Grant, had been merely
uncivil, using a bludgeon for wit, whereas the visitor was making play
with a finely-tempered rapier.
"Now that you have established your identity, Mr. Ingerman, perhaps you
will tell me why you are here," he said.
"I have come to Steynholme to inquire into my wife's death."
"A most laudable purpose. I was given to understand, however, that at one
time you took little interest in her living. I have not seen Mrs.
Ingerman for three years--until last night, that is--so there is a
chance, of course, that husband and wife may have adjusted their
differences. Is that so?"
"Until last night!" repeated Ingerman, almost in a startled tone. "You
admit that?"
Grant turned and pointed.
"I saw, or fancied I saw, her face at that window," he said. "She
looked in on me about ten minutes to eleven. I was hard at work, but
the vision, as it seemed then, was so weird and unexpected, that I went
straight out and searched for her.
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