“I remember years ago hearing her,” said Elk reminiscently.
Dick Gordon stopped, and, turning, glared at the other.
“You remember . . . what do you mean?” he demanded.
“She was on the stage at the time—quite a kid,” continued Elk. “They called her ‘The Child Mimic.’ There’s another thing I’ve noticed, Captain: if you take a magnifying glass and look at your skin, you see its defects, don’t you? That wireless telephone acts as a sort of magnifying glass to the voice. She always had a little lisp that I jumped at straight away. You may not have noticed it, but I’ve got pretty sharp ears. She can’t pronounce her ‘S’s’ properly, there’s a sort of faint ‘th’ sound in ’um. You heard that?”
Dick had heard, and nodded.
“I never knew that she was ever on the stage,” he said more calmly. “You are sure, Elk?”
“Sure. In some things I’m . . . what’s the word?—infall-i-able. I’m a bit shaky on dates, such as when Henry the First an’ all that bunch got born—I never was struck on birthdays anyway—but I know voices an’ noses. Never forget ’um.”
They were turning into the dark entrance of Scotland Yard when Dick said in a tone of despair:
“It was her voice, of course. I had no idea she had been on the stage—is her father in this business?”
“She hasn’t a father so far as I know,” was the staggering reply, and again Gordon halted.