“I didn’t,” Mason admitted, “when I came here, but now that I’ve found it out, I’m quite anxious to see her husband. I... I might have a job for him.”
“There’s a lot of younger men out of jobs these days,” Mrs. Winters said. “I don’t know what Helen was thinking of, taking on a man like that to support, because that’s just what it’s going to amount to. I guess he’s a nice, quiet, respectable man and all that, but after all he’s out of work, and if you ask me, his clothes show it. I would think Helen’d get him a new suit of clothes. She lives simple enough and they do say as how she has quite a little put by for a rainy day.”
Mason’s eyes narrowed in thoughtful speculation. Abruptly he fished in his vest pocket with his thumb and forefinger and took out the folded newspaper picture of Fremont C. Sabin. “Is there any chance,” he asked, showing Mrs. Winters the picture, “that this photograph is of her husband?”
Mrs. Winters carefully adjusted her glasses, took the newsprint picture from Mason, and held it up so that the western light fell full upon it.
In the automobile, Paul Drake and Della Street watched breathlessly.
An expression of surprise came over Mrs. Winters’ face. “Land sakes, yes,” she said. “That’s the man, just as natural as life. I’d know him anywhere. Good Lord, what’s George Wallman done to get his picture in the newspapers?”
Mason retrieved the picture. “Look here, Mrs. Winters,” he said, “it’s vitally important that I find Mrs. Wallman at once and...”
“Oh, you want to see Mrs. Wallman now. Is that it?”
“Either Mr. or Mrs.,” Mason said. “Since she was the last one you’ve seen, perhaps you could tell me where I’d be able to find her.”
“I’m sure I don’t know. She might have gone to visit her sister. Her sister’s a school teacher in Edenglade.”