“Come in,” she said. “Come right in. Are you a detective?”
Mason shook his head.
For a moment there was a flicker of disappointment on her face, but she led the way into an old-fashioned living room where chairs with crocheted doilies for head and arm rests were arranged in a stiffly conventional design.
“Sit down,” she invited. “—Land sakes, I’m so excited I’m all of a tremble, what with that automobile accident this morning, and then what they’ve found over in the Prescott house. I just can’t seem to calm myself down.”
Mason seated himself, stretched his neck to peer out of the window. “What have they found in the Prescott house?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, “but I think it’s a murder. And I don’t know whether I did right in not telling the officers what I saw. I suppose they’ll come over and question me, won’t they?”
Mason smiled and said, “What did you see, Mrs. Anderson?”
“Well,” she said, sitting very stiffly erect, “I saw plenty. I just said to myself, says I to myself, says I, ‘There’s something going on over in that house, and you, Stella Anderson, had better call the officers.’ ”
“But you didn’t do it?”
“Not about that. I called them about the automobile accident.”