“I couldn’t say exactly. Three months ago or more, I should think. But my daughter might remember. Vera is a typist and she was interested in the machine more than what I was. I’ll call her, if you like. She is at home on holidays.”
Vera Welsh was the pretty girl with fair hair and blue eyes whom French had already seen. She smiled at him as she appeared in answer to her mother’s call.
“We were talking of Mr. Pyke’s typewriter,” he explained. “Can you tell me what make it was?”
“Yes. I noticed it when I was dusting the room. It was a Corona Four.”
“And when did he get it?”
The girl hesitated. “Between three and four months ago,” she said at last, with a reserve which aroused French’s interest.
“Between three and four months?” he repeated. “How are you so sure of that? Was there anything to fix it in your mind?”
There was, but for some time the girl would not give details. Then at last the cause came out.
It seemed that on the day after Vera had first noticed the machine she had had some extra typing to do in the office which would have necessitated her working late. But on that day her mother had not been well and she had particularly wanted to get home at her usual time. The thought of Mr. Pyke’s typewriter occurred to her, together with the fact that he had left that morning on one of his many visits to the country. She had thereupon decided to borrow the machine for the evening. She had brought her work home and had done it in his sitting room. She did not remember the actual day, but could find it from her records in the office.
“Very wise, if you ask me,” French said, sympathetically. “And what was the nature of the work you did?” He found it hard to keep the eagerness out of his voice.