“What age would you say the woman was, Druce?” asked Mr. Day.
Druce hesitated. He seemed to find this another poser. Then he committed himself.
“Well, I ain’t certain, sir, not by no manner of means, but I should say somewhere between thirty and forty.”
“Dark or fair?”
“I couldn’t see, sir. Honest, I couldn’t—so it’s no use askin’ me, sir.”
Day turned in Goodall’s direction. “I’m afraid that’s about all we shall get, Inspector,” he declared semi-humorously. “Do you want to ask him any more?”
“I’m thirsting to,” drawled Goodall. “He’s such a mine of information. Let him go,” he muttered with a tinge of disgust.
Druce turned with relief written on every line of his face. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, gentlemen. I’m glad to ’ave been of assistance to you.” He made his way to the door. Then he turned to the group again.
“I’ll tell you what I did notice about that woman, now I come to think of it,” he announced with an air of extreme wisdom.
“You don’t say!” declared Goodall. “Don’t tell me she walked with one shoulder lower than the other—all suspected persons do.”