She was a rather tall woman of perhaps thirty-eight, and had probably been attractive, though now her face bore lines of sad grief. Hewitt noticed that she wore a very high black collar.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Isitt,” he said. “I’m afraid my errand is not altogether pleasant. The fact is, your brother, Mr. Neale, was not altogether sober last night, and he is now at the police station, where he wrote this note.”
Mrs. Isitt did not appear surprised, and took the note with no more than a sigh.
“Yes,” she said, “it can’t be concealed. This is not the first time by many, as you probably know, if you are a friend of his.”
She read the note, and as she looked up Hewitt said—
“No, I have not known him long. I happened to be at the station last night, and he rather attracted my attention by insisting, in his intoxicated state, on giving himself up for kidnapping a child, Charles Seton.”
Mrs. Isitt started as though shot. Pale of cheek, she glanced fearfully in Hewitt’s face and there met a keen gaze that seemed to read her brain. She saw that her secret was known, but for a moment she struggled, and her lips worked convulsively—
“Charles Seton—Charles Seton?” she said.
“Yes, Mrs. Isitt, that is the name. The child, as a matter of fact, was stolen by the person who bought these shoes for it. Do you recognise them?”
He produced the shoes and held them before her. The woman sank on the sofa behind her, terrified, but unable to take her eyes from Hewitt’s.