Mrs. Ackroyd looked at me in distress. I had no patience with what I thought was her silly fear of unpleasantness.
“If there’s an inquest, I—I shan’t have to answer questions and all that, shall I?” she asked.
“I don’t know what will be necessary,” I answered. “I imagine Mr. Raymond will take the brunt of it off you. He knows all the circumstances, and can give formal evidence of identification.”
The lawyer assented with a little bow.
“I really don’t think there is anything to dread, Mrs. Ackroyd,” he said. “You will be spared all unpleasantness. Now, as to the question of money, have you all you need for the present? I mean,” he added, as she looked at him inquiringly, “ready money. Cash, you know. If not, I can arrange to let you have whatever you require.”
“That ought to be all right,” said Raymond, who was standing by. “Mr. Ackroyd cashed a cheque for a hundred pounds yesterday.”
“A hundred pounds?”
“Yes. For wages and other expenses due to-day. At the moment it is still intact.”
“Where is this money? In his desk?”
“No, he always kept his cash in his bedroom. In an old collar-box, to be accurate. Funny idea, wasn’t it?”