"My request must appear
singular, I know, but I assure you it is no idle one."
Benson looked positively stupid, but Mrs. Howett, who had
conceived a sort of reverence for Paul Harley, hurried away
excitedly.
"Finally, Benson," said Harley, "what else did you bring into the
room after Sir Charles and I had entered?"
"Soup, sir. Here is the tureen, on the sideboard, and all the
soup plates of the service in use that night. Of course, sir, I
can't say which were the actual plates used."
Paul Harley inspected the plates, a set of fine old Derby ware,
and gazed meditatively at the silver ladle. "Did the maid, Jones,
handle any of these?" he asked.
"No, sir"--emphatically. "She was preparing to bring the trout
from the kitchen."
"But I saw her in the room."
"She had brought in the fish plates, a sauce boat, and two toast
racks, sir. She put them here, on the sideboard. But they were
never brought to the table."
"H'm. Has Jones left?"
"Yes, sir. She was under notice. But after her rudeness, Mrs.
Howett packed her off right away. She left the very next day
after poor Sir Charles died."
"Where has she gone?"
"To a married sister, I believe, until she finds a new job. Mrs.
Howett has the address."
At this moment Mrs. Howett entered, bearing a tablecloth and a
number of serviettes.
"This was the cloth," she said, spreading it out, "but which of
the serviettes were used I cannot say.
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