Mrs. Carnthwacke appeared anxious to obey him.
“He—he opened the door, the man I—I told you about. ‘Come in, Mrs. Carnthwacke,’ he said. I never doubted its being Mr. Bechcombe—why should I? He knew my name and my errand. Certainly I thought he had an unpleasant voice, husky—not like what I had heard when I rang him up. But he said he had a cold.” She stopped again.
This time John Steadman interposed.
“Now the details of your interview you have told us before——”
“Ever so many times,” she sobbed. “I can't say anything but what I told you at the inquest.”
“But, now that this extraordinary new light has been thrown upon everything, do you recollect anything—anything that may help us? You know the veriest trifles sometimes provide the most successful clues—a mark on hands or face, for example.”
“There wasn't any,” Mrs. Carnthwacke answered, shaking visibly. “Or if there was, I didn't see it. But my eyesight isn't what it was, and the room was very dark, so I couldn't see very well.”
“Dark! I shouldn't call it a dark room,” contradicted John Steadman. “And the day was a clear one, I know.”
“The room itself mightn't be dark,” Mrs. Carnthwacke said obstinately. “But the blinds were drawn partly down and that heavy screen before the window nearest the desk would darken any room.”
“Screen!” John Steadman repeated in a puzzled tone. “I have seen no screen near the window.”