"Mrs. Caldershaw dead!" gasped Mrs. Giles, a rosy-faced little woman, who turned pale at the sudden announcement. "What does the gentleman mean, Sam?"
"Sit down, sir," said Giles, pushing forward a chair, then turned towards his astonished and somewhat terrified wife to explain. In a few minutes Mrs. Giles was in full possession of the facts which had led me to her abode. She listened in silence, her face now quite white and drawn. "What does it all mean, Sam?" she asked under her breath.
"That's what we've got to find out, Sarah. Warshaw has been sent for from Arkleigh, and when he comes, we'll see what is to be done."
"Warshaw and Caldershaw," I murmured; "rather similar names. I hope your policeman friend will wire to Murchester about my car."
"There's no telegraph office hereabout, sir. I expect he'll send in a messenger to Murchester for the Inspector, and for your friend, sir."
"Lord Cannington? Oh, yes. He can identify me as Cyrus Vance."
"What!" said Mrs. Giles, who was recovering her colour, "the gentleman who wrote them lovely plays?"
"The same," I assented, "and the gentleman's very hungry."
"You shall have supper in a few minutes," cried Mrs. Giles, much impressed with the angel she had hitherto entertained unawares. "Sam, did you bring back that bacon?"
"Nor I didn't, my dear, 'cos there wasn't anyone to sell the bacon, Mrs. Caldershaw being dead."