As the door closed behind him, I heard a step on the stair, and
turned to see Godfrey calmly descending.
"I came in a few minutes ago," he explained, in answer to my look,
"and have been glancing around upstairs. Nothing there. How did our
friend Grady get along?"
"Fairly well; but if he guesses anything, his face didn't show it."
"His face never shows anything, because there's nothing to show. He
has cultivated that sibylline look until people think he's a wonder.
But he's simply a stupid ignoramus."
"Oh, come, Godfrey," I protested, "you're prejudiced. He went right
to the point. Do you know Rogers's story?"
"About the woman? Certainly. Rogers told it to me before Grady
arrived."
"Well," I commented, "you didn't lose any time."
"I never do," he assented blandly. "And now I'm going to prove to you
that Grady is merely a stupid ignoramus. He has heard all the
evidence, but does he know who that woman was?"
"Of course not," I said, and then I looked at him. "Do you mean that
you do? Then I'm an ignoramus, too!"
"My dear Lester," protested Godfrey, "you are not a detective--that's
not your business; but it _is_ Grady's. At least, it is supposed to
be, and the safety of this city as a place of residence depends more
or less upon the truth of that assumption.
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