Mrs. Anderson pursed her lips, wrinkled her forehead into a frown, and then said positively, “The right one.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes, I can see her right now in my mind’s eye, standing there at the window, the canary held in her left hand, his feet up in the air — yes, it was the right foot she was working on.”
“That was after the young man had left?”
“Oh, yes, that was after I’d come back from the Weymans’— Well, now, here’s someone else coming! I wonder what he wants. Land sakes, this has been a day!”
Mason got to his feet and stood by his chair while Mrs.Anderson, with quick, nervous strides, fluttered over toward the door. Sergeant Holcomb had hardly touched the bell button before she opened the door and said, “How do you do? What do you want?”
“You’re Stella Anderson?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Sergeant Holcomb, of the homicide squad. You reported having seen a young man over in the house next door hand a revolver to a woman who concealed it?”
“Why, yes,” she said, “but I don’t know how you found it out. I haven’t told a soul except Mrs. Weyman, and a man who’s calling on me—”