“Oh, was Mrs. Prescott there?”
“No, she wasn’t,” Stella Anderson said. “That was my mistake. I’d thought for a minute it was Mrs. Prescott, though. You see, Rita Swaine was wearing one of Rosalind Prescott’s dresses. It’s a print house dress that I know just as well as I know my own clothes, because I’ve seen it so often. She and her sister aren’t twins, but they’re as alike as two peas from the same pod. And, at the time, seeing that dress and not being able to see her face clearly, I thought it was Mrs. Prescott. And thinking what a pretty kettle of fish it would make if this young man had been that way with a married woman— Well, I’m glad he wasn’t!”
“Perhaps it was Mrs. Prescott,” Mason said.
“No, it wasn’t. Afterwards I got a good look at her face.”
“And it wasn’t Mrs. Prescott?” Mason asked.
“No,” she said in a voice which showed her disappointment, “it wasn’t.”
“You’re certain?”
“Of course I’m certain. I’m just as certain as I am that I’m sitting here right this minute.”
“You’re talking now about something which took place after the accident?”
“You mean when I found out for certain it was the unmarried sister?”