“This her bedroom?” he inquired, as he pushed it open and looked in.
As Cheyne followed him into the tiny apartment, he felt as a devout Mohammedan might, who through stress of circumstances entered fully shod into one of the holy places of his religion. It seemed nothing short of profanation for himself and this commonplace inspector of police to intrude into a place so hallowed by association with Her. In a kind of reverent awe he looked about him. There was the bed in which She slept, the table at which She dressed, the wardrobe in which Her dresses hung, and there—what were those? He stood, stricken motionless by surprise, staring at a tiny pair of rather high-heeled brown shoes which were lying on their sides on the floor in front of a chair.
French noted his expression.
“What is it?” he queried, following the direction of the other’s eyes.
“Her shoes!” Cheyne said in a tone of wonder, as he might have said: “Her diamond coronet.”
French frowned.
“Well, what’s wonderful about that?” he asked with the nearest approach to sharpness in his tone that Cheyne had yet heard.
“Her shoes,” Cheyne repeated. “Her shoes that she wore last night.”
It was now French’s turn to look interested.
“Sure of that?” he asked, picking up the shoes.