The pretty little cottage which was the home of Mrs Briggs they found and went through the wooden picket gate and up to the front door.
“Something tells me she won’t be glad to see us,” Wise whispered, and then they were admitted by a middle-aged woman who answered Wise’s courteous question by stating that she was Mrs Briggs.
She looked amiable enough, Zizi thought, and she asked her callers to be seated in her homely but comfortable sitting-room.
“I am here,” Wise began, watching her face for any expression of alarm, “to ask you a few questions about some cases you attended when you were a nurse in the Greenvale Hospital.”
“Yes, sir,” was the non-committal response, but Zizi’s quick eye noticed the woman’s fingers grasp tightly the corner of her apron, which she rolled and twisted nervously.
“One case, especially, was that of a Mrs Varian. You remember it?”
“No,—I do not,” Mrs Briggs replied, but it was after a moment’s hesitation, and she spoke, in a low, uncertain voice.
“Oh, yes, you do,” and Wise looked at her sternly. “Mrs Frederick Varian,—a lovely lady, who gave birth to a girl child, and you were her attendant.”
“No; I don’t remember any Mrs Varian.” The voice was steadier now but the speaker kept her eyes averted from the detective’s face.
“Your memory is defective,” he said, quietly. “Do you, then, remember a Mrs Curtis?”