“I will ask for a ladder presently, and examine the face of the wall.  Ivy, I see.  Ivy has told me some very interesting secrets before to-day, Sir Walter.”

“I dare say it has.”

“If you will remind me at luncheon, I can tell you a truly amazing story about ivy—­a story of life and death.  A man could easily go and come by this window.”

“Not easily I think,” said Henry.  “It is rather more than thirty-five feet to the ground.”

“How do you know that?”

“The police, who made the original inquiry and were stopped, as you will remember, from Scotland Yard, measured it the second morning afterwards—­on Monday.”

“But they did not examine the face of the wall?”

“I think not.  They dropped a measure from the window.”

The other pursued his examination of the room.  “Old furniture,” he said; “very old evidently.”

“It was collected in Spain by my grandfather many years ago.”

“Valuable, no doubt?”

“I understand so.”

“Wonderful carving.  And this door?”

“It is not a door, but a cupboard in the solid wall.”

Sir Walter opened the receptacle as he spoke.  The cupboard—­some six and a half feet high—­was empty.  At the back of it appeared a row of pegs for clothes.

“I can finish with the room for the present at any rate, in an hour, gentlemen,” said Hardcastle.  “I’ll spend the time here till luncheon.  Had your son-in-law any interest in old furniture, Sir Walter?”

“None whatever to my knowledge.  He was interested, poor fellow, not in the contents, but in the evil reputation of the room.  Its bad name dated back far beyond the occupation of my family.  Captain May laughed at my mistrust, and, as you know, he came here, contrary to my express wishes, in order that he might chaff me next morning over my superstition.  He wanted ‘to clear its character,’ as he said.”

Hardcastle was turning over the stack of old oil-paintings in tarnished frames.

“Family portraits?”

“Yes.”

“You mistrusted the room yourself, Sir Walter?”

“After Nurse Forrester’s death I did.  Not before.  But while attaching no importance myself to the tradition, I respected it.”

“Nobody else ever spent a night here after the lady’s death?”

“Nobody.  Of that I am quite certain.”

“Have you not left the house since?”

“Frequently.  I generally spend March, April, and May on the Continent—­in France or Italy.  But the house is never closed, and my people are responsible to me.  The room is always locked, and when I am not in residence Abraham Masters, my butler, keeps the key.  He shares my own feelings so far as the Grey Room is concerned.”

The detective nodded.  He was standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets.

“A strange fact—­the force of superstition,” he said.  “It seems to feed on night, where ghosts are involved.  What, I suppose, credulous people call ‘the powers of darkness.’  But have you ever asked yourself why the spiritualists must work in the dark?”