“Not mine? You don’t mean mine? That would be too odd—too ridiculously odd. I should not understand a coincidence of that kind; no, I should not, notwithstanding the fact that I have lately sent out such work to be done.”
“Yet it was your name, very clearly and precisely written—your whole name, Miss Strange. I saw and read it myself.”
“But I gave the order to Madame Pirot on Fifth Avenue. How came my things to be found in the house of this woman of whose horrible death we have been talking?”
“Did you suppose that Madame Pirot did such work with her own hands?—or even had it done in her own establishment? Mrs. Doolittle was universally employed. She worked for a dozen firms. You will find the biggest names on most of her packages. But on this one—I allude to the one addressed to you—there was more to be seen than the name. These words were written on it in another hand. Send without opening. This struck the police as suspicious; sufficiently so, at least, for them to desire your presence at the house as soon as you can make it convenient.”
“To open the box?”
“Exactly.”
The curl of Miss Strange’s disdainful lip was a sight to see.
“You wrote those words yourself,” she coolly observed. “While someone’s back was turned, you whipped out your pencil and—”
“Resorted to a very pardonable subterfuge highly conducive to the public’s good. But never mind that. Will you go?”
Miss Strange became suddenly demure.