“And you are willing to testify to this effect?”
“Yes.”
“You are aware that the elevator boy has positively identified the body as that of your visitor?”
“I guess my word’s as good as a nigger’s,” she said, with a defiant toss of her head.
“No doubt,” replied the Coroner, politely; “but if you would tell us the name and address of your friend we could look him up and be able to assure the police of his safety, and so save you the disagreeable necessity of appearing in court.”
“In court,” she repeated, with a horrified expression. Evidently this possibility had not occurred to her, and she glanced hurriedly around as if contemplating immediate flight.
“Mrs. Atkins,” said the detective, earnestly, “I do not think that you realise certain facts. A man has been murdered who has been identified, rightly or wrongly, with your visitor. Now, no one saw your friend leave the building, and it is our business to ascertain that he did so. Can you tell us what became of him?”
A hunted expression came into her eyes, but she answered in a steady voice: “My friend left me at a little after eleven; he was going to take the midnight train to Boston.” She paused. “His name is Allan Brown—there, now!”
“Thank you, madam, and what is Mr. Brown’s address in Boston?”