The inspector did not speak for a minute. He unlocked a drawer and took out an official-looking notebook.
“Your name and address, madam?”
“Is that necessary?” There was a quiver in the clear tones. “I have told you that I was there—that the glove is mine. Is not that enough?”
“Scarcely, madam. But”—waiving the subject of the name for a moment—“why have you not spoken before?”
“I didn't hear at first.” She hesitated a moment, her foot tapping the floor impatiently.
And now she was nearer to him he could see that her make-up was extensive, that complexion and eyes owed much of their brilliancy to art, and that the red-gold hair probably came off entirely. But it was a handsome face, though not that of a woman in her first youth. The features, though large, were well formed, and the big blue eyes would have been more beautiful without the black lines with which they were embellished.
“I don't read the papers much, at least only the society news and about the theatres—never murders or horrors of that kind, and it was not until I heard some people talking about it, and they mentioned Mr. Bechcombe's name, that I knew what had happened. I did not realize at first that it—the murder had taken place on the very day which I had been to the office, and that it was my glove that had been found beside the desk. Even then I made up my mind not to speak out if I could help it. Mr. Bechcombe was alive and well when I saw him. I couldn't tell you anything about the murder. And I couldn't have my name mixed up in a murder trial, or let the papers, or certain—er—people get to know what I had been doing at Mr. Bechcombe's office.”
“Then why have you come to us now?”
“Because I thought, if I didn't tell you, you would be sure to find out,” was the candid reply. “And—and if I came myself I thought you might call me Madame X, or something like that. They do, you know, and then perhaps—er—people might never know.”
The inspector smiled.