“H’m!” was all the comment vouchsafed on my remark.
“I am sure it was Arthur Cutbush, the girl’s sweetheart, after all,” I retorted hotly, “and you’ll see that, put to the test of sworn evidence, his alibi at the time of the assault itself won’t hold good. Moreover, now,” I added triumphantly, “we have knowledge
“Ten minutes later the dainty clouds of lace and chiffon were finally wafted out”
which has been lacking all along—the motive.”
“Ah!” said my lady, smiling at my enthusiasm, “that’s how you argue, Mary, is it?”
“Yes, and in my opinion the only question in doubt is whether Arthur Cutbush acted in collusion with Jane Turner or against her.”
“Well, suppose we go and elucidate that point—and some others—at once,” concluded Lady Molly as she rose from the table.
She decided to return to Bristol that same evening. We were going by the 8.50 p.m., and I was just getting ready—the cab being already at the door—when I was somewhat startled by the sudden appearance into my room of an old lady, very beautifully dressed, with snow-white hair dressed high above a severe, interesting face.
A merry, rippling laugh issuing from the wrinkled mouth, and a closer scrutiny on my part, soon revealed the identity of my dear lady, dressed up to look like an extremely dignified grande dame of the old school, whilst a pair of long, old-fashioned earrings gave a curious, foreign look to her whole appearance.