Anthony plied the porter with another question. “Any special points about either of them, Atkins, during their stay here?”
The porter’s shrewd face wrinkled in thought. “Well, sir,” he said, after a few seconds’ consideration, “you mightn’t call it a special point—and there again, you might, but I did spot something you might call peculiar on the part of the lady—Mrs. Stewart as we called her.”
“Let’s hear it,” exclaimed Anthony—“little things count in cases of this description. Try to remember carefully.”
Atkins rubbed his fingers across his nose. “Well, sir—it was like this ’ere. I happened to be on duty in the ‘foyer’ when Mr. and Mrs. Stewart first arrived. And I noticed that Mrs. Stewart was able to tell the time from the clock that hangs right at the other end of the vestibule. I remember ’er saying to ’im—‘Look—we’re late—it’s nearly half-past six.’ Now, you can take it from me, sir, a woman’s got to ’ave blinkin’ good sight to see the time that distance—you ’ave a look yourself, sir, when you go out.”
“I will,” said Anthony encouragingly. “Go on, Atkins.”
“Well, sir, two days after that little incident and almost what you might call regular ever since—Mrs. Stewart went about wearing black glasses—in fact, she was wearing ’em when ’er husband was in the smoke-room answering that telephone call that caused ’em to skip out so quick.”
“How do you know that?” rapped Goodall.
Atkins turned to him and answered him—unperturbed and unabashed. “I was in there, sir, when Mr. Stewart came in and his wife followed on be’ind. They ’ad the call put through from downstairs. A gent sent for me to ’ave a word with me about getting his luggage orf—that’s ’ow I came to be in there.”
“This gets better and better,” declared Anthony. “Did you happen by any chance to overhear any of the Stewarts’ conversation?”
Atkins rubbed his nose again—possibly as an incentive to remembrance. “Nothing to speak of, sir—but I heard the lady say something about her father.”