“I didn’t observe the number,” the lady remarked. “The bonnet was facing towards me.”
“What was the driver like, madam?” queried Cheyne.
“One of Mr. Sime’s companions drove. He was short and rather stout, with a round face, and what, I believe, is called a toothbrush mustache.”
“That’s Blessington all right. And was the third man of medium height and build, with a clean-shaven, somewhat rugged face?”
“Yes, that exactly describes him.”
“And that’s Dangle. There’s no question about the party, Inspector.”
“None. Then, madam, you saw—?”
“That, as I said, was about half-past eleven. About half-past one the man you have called Blessington came back with the car. He got out, left it, and went into the house. In about a quarter of an hour he came out again and started his engine. Then the other two men followed, assisting a young lady who appeared to be very weak and ill. She seemed scarcely able to walk, and they almost carried her. Another girl followed, who drew the door of the house after her.”
Cheyne started on hearing these words, and looked with an agonized expression at the Inspector. “What were they like, these women?” he breathed through his dry lips.
But both men knew the answer. The girl assisted out by Sime and Dangle was undoubtedly Joan Merrill, and the other equally certainly was Susan Dangle.