“A few curious sidelights have arisen in connexion with Mr. Bechcombe's death,” the inspector pursued. “And I think you may be able to help me more than you realize. First, you recognize this, of course?” He took from its envelope of tissue paper the picture post card he had found in Amos Thompson's room in Brooklyn Terrace and handed it to her.
Cecily gazed at it in growing amazement.
“It—it looks like me! It is me, I believe,” she said ungrammatically. “But how in the world did you get it?”
“I found it,” the inspector said slowly, watching every change in her mobile face as he spoke, “in Amos Thompson's room in Brooklyn Terrace.”
Cecily stared at him.
“Impossible! You couldn't have! Why should Mr. Thompson have my photograph? And where was this taken, anyway?”
“That is what I am hoping you may tell us.”
“But I can't! I don't know!” Cecily said, still gazing in a species of stupefaction at her presentment. “It—it is a snapshot, of course, but I never saw it before, I never knew when it was taken.”
“You did not give it to Amos Thompson, then?” the inspector questioned.
“Good heavens, no! I knew nothing about Mr. Thompson. I have just seen him at a distance in the office. But I have never spoken to him in my life. I should not have known him had I met him in the street.”