“If Mr. Bechcombe died at twelve o'clock, and you heard someone moving about when you came back about half-past one o'clock,” the inspector said very slowly, giving due weight to each word, “the inference is that the person you heard moving about when you came back was the murderer.”
Cecily shivered as she stared at him.
“Oh, no, no, surely it could not have been! I do not believe it could!”
The inspector made no rejoinder. He glanced at his notebook again.
“Most probably you will be among the first witnesses called at the adjourned inquest on Friday, Miss Hoyle. I think that is all for to-day. Your name and address, please.”
“Cecily Frances Hoyle, Hobart Residence, Windover Square.”
The detective wrote it down.
“I think that is only a temporary address, though, you said, Miss Hoyle. Will you let me have your permanent one, please?”
Cecily hesitated in obvious confusion.
“I—I—that is my only address—the only one I have at present. I came to Mr. Bechcombe straight from school.”