`I say, Mr Hadley,' said the General. `What did you make of that woman?'
`Mrs Bitton? I wonder… She's an old hand at evasion, and a very good one. She sees the traps as soon as you set them. What do you know about her?'
`I'd never met her. But I know her husband slightly, through Bitton.'
'What's this Lester Bitton like?.
'I don't like to say,' the General answered, doubtfully. `Don't know the man well enough. He's older than she is; considerably, I should think. Can't imagine him enjoying these athletic activities of hers. I believe he made a lot of money in some financial scheme.'
Hadley turned his attention to the handkerchief, knotted up like a bundle, which contained the dead man's effects.
`Here we are. Wrist-watch; crystal broken, but still running. Bunch of keys. Fountain-pen and stylo pencil. Banknotes, silver and coppers. Only one letter…. Pure trash pale mauve envelope, and scented; woman's handwriting.'
He drew out a single sheet of paper, and Rampole and the General bent over it as he spread it out on the table. There was no date or heading. The message was written in the centre of the sheet: `Be careful. Tower of London, one-thirty. Suspect. Vital.- Mary.'
Hadley read it aloud, scowling. `Mary?' he repeated. 'Now we've got to find a Mary. Let's see. Postmarked London, W, ten-thirty last night. This thing is beginning to get on my nerves.' Pushing the letter out on the desk, he turned to the contents of the handkerchief again. `I must say the sergeant is thorough. He even included the dead man's ring and tie-pin. But here's our hope. Loose-leaf note-book, black leather.'
Opening the note-book, he let his eye run along the few scrawled lines on the first sheet.