He turned the handle of his door quietly and entered the room as quickly and noiselessly as possible. If he had hoped to surprise his visitor, however, he found himself disappointed.
She was standing immediately opposite the door with her back to the window. She did not wait for him to speak.
“Are you in charge of the Bechcombe case?” she demanded, and he noticed that her voice was powerful and rather hard in tone.
The inspector glanced keenly at her as he walked to the chair behind his office table. Standing thus with her back to the light he could see little of his visitor's face, which was also concealed by the hat which was crushed down upon her forehead and overshadowed by an uncurled feather mount. But he could tell that she was fashionably gowned, that the furs she had thrown back from her shoulders were costly.
He answered her question and asked another.
“I am Inspector Furnival, and I am inquiring into the circumstances of Mr. Bechcombe's death. May I ask why you want to know?”
His interlocutor took a few steps forward, clasping her hands nervously together.
“You know that a white glove was found by Mr. Bechcombe's desk?”
“Yes.”
“It was my glove. I left it there!”