“Shall have to get into touch with her,” muttered Bannister. “Do you happen to remember her name?”
Daphne pondered, the tip of her fore-finger pressed to her dainty lips. “Carr, I think,” she answered after a moment or two, “but Sheila always referred to her by a nickname or something—now what was it?—I can remember hearing Uncle Desmond use it when he mentioned her.” She screwed up her eyes—as people sometimes do when attempting to remember something particularly elusive. “No,” she concluded regretfully, “I can’t remember what it was.”
The Crown Prince looked across at Anthony in such a meaning way that that gentleman formed the opinion that he wished to communicate something to him. Mr. Bathurst judged that the existing conditions might be far from favourable for an interchange of the Royal confidences—he therefore rather adroitly avoided the Royal eye. Whatever it was it could wait and, which was more, would probably be all the better for keeping. Bannister turned to Sergeant Godfrey as they left the building.
“Get through to the Westhampton police as quickly as possible. Tell them as much as you consider expedient—tell them I hope to be up there with them by tea-time this evening.”
Godfrey vanished—a load was taken from his mind—Bannister was taking hold! That to him meant considerable relief. Anthony approached the Inspector.
“I should be tremendously obliged, Inspector,” he spoke very quietly, “if I could have a glance at the clothes this poor girl was wearing.”
“Don’t think you’ll learn much from them,” rejoined Bannister. He obtained them and tossed them over to Anthony. The latter turned them over and picked up the hat. “The only name to be found is inside the hat—you’ll see it if you look.”
But Mr. Bathurst appeared to be more concerned with the external. He looked carefully at the brim—turned down as it was all the way round—Bannister watching with some amusement. Anthony looked away quickly and caught his critical eye. He gave Bannister smile for smile; then picked up the dead girl’s brown shoes. He ran his finger-tips across their glossy surface. First across the right shoe—then across the left. He looked at his fingers.
“Well?” queried his audience, “Cherry Blossom or Kiwi?”
Mr. Bathurst ignored the interruption. He could afford to—he had managed to establish his first point. He looked at the soles of the two ‘semi-brogues.’ With the help of his magnifying glass he scrutinised the tops of the two shoes and the sides of the two soles with the most meticulous care.