“My client believes that he can identify the car that ran into his by the fact that he recognised a Miss Leslie in it, who is playing at the Columbine Theatre. From inquiries made at the theatre it appears that the gentleman who was driving the car in question must have been Major Thompson.”
“But our car didn't run into anything,” protested the lady. “I drove it myself all morning. And, besides, my husband and Miss Leslie weren't anywhere near Richmond Park. What time is this accident supposed to've happened?”
Mr. Deane looked pained.
“My client, Madame, was run into at between half-past four and a quarter to five.”
“There you are!” exclaimed Mrs. Thompson in triumph. “Major Thompson—he's out on the links this afternoon—fetched Miss Leslie about two o'clock from the Columbine, and drove her here, where my son and I were waiting in the launch. We had intended to go for a picnic up the river, but the weather was so shocking that we gave it up, and played bridge instead. Miss Leslie refused to let my husband or son take the car out again, and took a taxi back to her hotel just before dinner.”
“So Miss Leslie was here in the house at the time my client's car was run into—about half-past four?”
Mrs. Thompson turned a deep red.
“Miss Leslie was here from two-thirty till she left about half-past seven,” she said very distinctly. “If you care to go up to the golf links you'll find my husband there and the car! You can examine both at your leisure.”
“Madame, I regret to say that I do not understand the affair at all.” Mr. Deane stroked his grey moustache and spoke testily. “My client told me that he recognised Miss Leslie distinctly, and at her hotel, where of course I went first before venturing to disturb you, I was told that she had arrived on Saturday in a condition—I refer to her habiliments—which distinctly corroborated the idea of an accident.”
Mrs. Thompson's foot was beating a light tattoo on the floor, and there was a distinct sparkle in her pretty eyes as she looked at her visitor.