The inspector paced the narrow confines of his office in Scotland Yard two or three times before he made any rejoinder. Then as he cast a lightning glance at Steadman he said tentatively:
“I have sometimes wondered what Mrs. Collyer is like.”
“Not the sort of woman to substitute paste for her own emeralds,” Steadman said ironically. “No use. You will have to look farther afield, inspector.”
“I am half inclined to put it down to the Yellow Gang,” the inspector said doubtfully. “But it differs in several particulars from the work of the Yellow Dog, notably the substitution of the paste. But—well, there may have been reasons.”
Still his brow was puckered in a frown as he turned to his notebook.
“Now, Mr. Steadman, I have someone else for you to interview.” He sounded his bell sharply as he spoke. “Show Mr. Brunton in as soon as he comes,” he said to the policeman who appeared in answer.
“He is waiting, sir.”
“Oh, good! Let him come in. This Brunton, Mr. Steadman, is one of the late Mr. Bechcombe's younger clerks. I do not know whether you knew him.”
John Steadman shook his head.
“No, I have no recollection of any of the clerks but Thompson.”