“Yesterday morning.”
“You are sure ... quite sure?”
“I am.” Then turning to her husband, “I want Inspector Baddeley to see Coombes—poor girl—she’s in a terrible way. I think she can already visualize herself being hanged at least. But as honest as the day, Inspector, so don’t frighten her.”
“I’ll try not to, I’m sure,” grunted Baddeley. “Roper!”
The silent Roper came to life again.
“Get full particulars of this missing necklace from Sir Charles and take the usual steps. If you send for Coombes,” to Lady Considine, “I’ll see her now.”
“Enter Coombes L.U.E.,” smiled Anthony. “As innocent as the ‘rathe’ primrose by the river’s brim.”
“Don’t count chickens before the hatching stage is completed, Mr. Bathurst. I’ve known crooks that looked like choristers, and bishops that looked like burglars.”
“That comes of judging people by their looks, Inspector,” chaffed back Anthony, “instead of by their actions.”
Coombes entered. Scared to death! She was a tall girl, with wispy red hair and a big face. The sense of bigness was given by the face, by a long line of strong jaw. It was what I should have called a “horse’s face.” Pythagoras would have declared that she had transmigrated from a horse. She opened the proceedings by bursting into loud sobbing.